


we are climbing higher

by jamesiee



Series: not to win, but to take part [1]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: 2018 Winter Olympics, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Olympics, Anxiety, Background Justin "Ransom" Oluransi/Adam "Holster" Birkholtz, Gen, Jack Zimmermann & Justin "Ransom" Oluransi, Jack Zimmermann & Shitty Knight - Freeform, M/M, Panic Attacks, Past Kent Parson/Jack Zimmermann, just mentioned though, meet cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-04
Updated: 2018-04-01
Packaged: 2019-03-12 15:10:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 33,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13549938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jamesiee/pseuds/jamesiee
Summary: At 1:30 pm on April 4 2017, the NHL Commissioner officially announces that the NHL will not participate in the 2018 PyeongChang Olympics.At 1:37pm, Jack finishes his thesis presentation and his phone buzzes a couple minutes later.>>Papa:hockey canada is interested. call when u canJack remembers what it’s like to have Hockey Canada interested in him. (He doesn't remember the tournament.)Or, Jack doesn't go to Samwell. The NHL doesn't go to the 2018 Olympics. Jack and Bitty still go to South Korea.





	1. Hockey Canada

**Author's Note:**

> yeeesh. okay. this has been a thing i've had in my head since last june, but didn't actually start writing until about a month ago and like, this thing consumed my life as the longest thing ive written in the shortest amount of time. 
> 
> this is part 1 of 3. the next two parts will be posted sometime during the olympics, ish. uhh, this part sets up the next two parts more than anything (and is a result of a deeeeep google dive), so there's very little romance and a lot of hockey. and by little i mean none. it'll come in next part. 
> 
> biggest fucking shout out to @[apprenticedmagician](http://apprenticedmagician.tumblr.com/) who lets me pop into her inbox with random sentences, continues to read my stuff even when i use 'squirt' in various forms, and just is all around a beautiful human. :*<3 and so many thank-you-fist-bumps to everyone who dealt with me while i hyperfocused on this and was encouraging all the same! 
> 
> any mistakes here are all mine, and the omgcp universe of course belongs to ngozi
> 
> * * *
> 
> i'll add more character tags as they come up in the next parts, but please let me know if there are warnings or tags you think i might need. rated t right now for language, but will probably go up
> 
> CW: descriptions of panic attacks and anxiety

 

Part One: Hockey Canada

 

**Spring 2017**

_Canada_

_8 months until Opening Ceremony_

_/\\_ _/\\_ _/\\_

At 1:37pm on April 4, 2017, Jack finishes his thesis presentation on _Women and Sport in World War II: how ideals of femininity changed to fit into patriotic ideals_ to much more applause than he expected, including a distinct _whoop_ that he can pick out as Shitty’s. Jack looks up from the notes he brought up with him to reference—wrinkled around the edges where he’s been picking at them as he spoke—and blinks at the group of other Master candidates, professors, and curious students that gathered in the small auditorium McGill’s History department used for the presentations each year.

“Euh… questions?” he asks, and is surprised at the ease with which he’s able to answer each one that’s asked. It’s still a relief when he can unplug his USB from the laptop and join the milling audience on their way to the foyer for the “light refreshments” that the history department offers. He’s stopped a couple times as he searches for Shitty in the crowd, but accepts the congratulatory handshakes and shoulder pats from his professors and fist bumps from the other members of his cohort. A knot in his chest loosens when he finds Shitty and no one has said made any mention of his dad.

“BRO!” Shitty shouts, wrapping both his arms around Jack and squeezing hard. “That was fucking amazing!” He punctuates that with a whiskery kiss to Jack’s cheek.

“You’ve seen it all before,” Jack says, wiping his face. He can’t help mirroring Shitty’s giant grin though, glad that after two years he’s closer to having something to show for all the late nights and caffeine induced research spirals.

“Yeah, but it’s not everyday a bro gets to see a bro get two letters behind his name,” Shitty says, ignoring that it’ll be a couple months until Jack walks the stage and accepts his degree officially. “I’m proud of you, man.”

“Thanks Shits.” Jack lets himself be hugged again, hugging back just as hard because he knows Shitty will find comfort in the touch. He’s had just as many late nights this past semester; a constant presence studying while Jack researched and wrote, and Shitty is still preparing for the mock trial required by second year law students. He looks tired, the bone deep exhaustion that comes from not sleeping more than a couple hours a night, and his time probably could have been better spent napping instead of coming to Jack’s presentation. But Shitty found out Jack’s parents were both out of the province due to work obligations and insisted he be here no matter how much Jack protested. Jack tries to communicate just how grateful he is for Shitty without having to stutter through the words by squeezing extra hard. From the way Shitty sniffs into Jack’s chest, he’s pretty sure the message is received.

“Is that your phone in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?” Shitty asks after a beat, when Jack’s phone buzzes and ruins their moment.

Jack groans at the bad joke, shoving Shitty away to get his phone and rub at his watery eyes at the same time. He swipes blindly at the screen without looking at the caller ID.

“Hello?” he answers, twisting away from where Shitty tries to steal the phone to say, “What’s shaking Mama Zed?”

“Didja hear the news, Zimms?”

Jack really wishes that he checked the caller ID before answering. He’s not in the habit of screening Kent’s calls anymore, but they’ll never be what they were before the draft and talking one-on-one always reinforces that. Jack was hoping to get his Master’s degree without being reminded that this is plan B, that he’s only here because he fucked up somewhere else. He lets out a long sigh instead of answering Kent right away, shrugging at Shitty’s raised eyebrows.

“No,” Jack says after a beat of listening to Kent breathe through the line. It’s amazing how Jack slows his breathes to match Kent’s like he used to during late nights in the Q. Jack closes his eyes and wonders vaguely if Kent knows he’s doing it. He hopes not.

“Bettman isn’t letting us go to the Olympics.”

Jack’s eyes snap open. “Who?”

“Us,” Kent answers. He hesitates for a long second. “ NHL players.”

Jack’s breath gets caught somewhere between his teeth and lungs.

‘Us’ used to mean him and Kent and was usually followed by ‘we’re gonna do it’ or ‘our team’ll be the best’, but there hasn’t been a ‘we’ or ‘us’ since Jack woke up in the hospital and Kent had a shiny new jersey with his name freshly stitched on the back. Now, it’s either Kent full-stop or Jack full-stop, never Jack-and-Kent anymore.

Jack swallows thickly; it’s been years and he’s over it. Really. “Why?” he asks instead of “fuck you.”

“Some bullshit about disrupting the season and owners losing money,” Kent huffs. “Look, I’m getting on the plane, but fucking, give them hell when you go, ‘kay? Make it interesting to watch.” He hangs up without saying goodbye, a habit he’s never grown out of.

Jack takes the phone from his ear, and doesn’t let the screen go black. He swipes over to the internet and types in _nhl olympics?_ , clicking onto the first nhl.com link. The knot in his chest comes back, and grows as he skims through the article.

“What’s up Jack?” Shitty asks lightly, though there’s a tightness around his moustache that means he’s worried. Jack passes him his phone, open to the article.

“Fuuuuck,” Shitty says emphatically, whistling through his teeth. “‘Lotta people gonna be pissed.”

At 1:30 pm on April 4 2017, NHL Commissioner Gary Bettman officially announced that the NHL will not participate in the 2018 PyeongChang Olympics.

Jack’s phone buzzes again so Shitty hands it back. Jack scrolls past the messages wishing him luck to get to the new one.

 **> >Papa: ** _hockey canada is interested. call when u can_

Jack remembers what it’s like to have Hockey Canada interested in you.

It was every kid in the Q’s dream to be invited to try out, let alone play for his country in the World Juniors, a bragging right just to say you were considered for the team. He was 17 the first time he got the call, invited to camp and then subsequently expected to play in the December tournament until he broke his hand in late November, during a stupid fight Kent had no business starting. Jack didn’t bother with the international travel, instead watching the boys win gold in the Czech Republic from his couch while Kent kept up a colourful commentary beside him, almost gleeful from the Americans being knocked out in the quarterfinals.

The next year, Kent got the call from Team USA that he made the roster first. It’s nothing new; the Americans always release their rosters earlier than Canada does, but Jack still spent five days washing down his anxiety meds with alcohol in between racking up as many points as possible to prove that he deserved to go to Ottawa. The tournament itself was a blur. Almost ten years later, Jack still isn’t sure if that was because of the adrenaline of carrying a country’s expectations on your back before you’ve properly finished puberty, or because of the extra pills he made sure to pack in between the maple leaf branded clothing he was sent.

Jack lets the screen go dark on the message.

“You gonna call?” Shitty asks quietly.

Jack scoffs, “Shitty, c’mon.” He shakes his head and slides the phone in his pocket. “Let’s go check if Dr. Leduc left any of those sandwiches you liked last year.” He ignores how his hands shake as he folds up the notes he’s been holding onto this whole time.

Shitty watches with a raised eyebrow.

“Jack, I’m serious,” he says, when Jack gives up folding and just stuffs the paper into his pockets. He doesn’t need them anymore, who cares if they’re wrinkled.

“You’re sleep deprived.”

“Well yeah, but that’s not the point. Team Canada wants you.”

Jack shakes his head again, pressing his lips together. “Sandwiches, Shitty, let’s go.” He doesn’t look at Shitty, instead squinting at the table where all the food is set up. It doesn’t look like Dr. Leduc has made off with all the sandwiches yet, but the vantage point is weird.

Shitty sighs loudly and puts enough into it that Jack knows they’re not done talking. But he turns and leads the way over to the table, even keeping a lookout while Jack piles as many sandwiches as he can on a small plate to pick at until he’s done his time socialising and his advisor gives him the nod that mea he can escape without offending anyone.

Shitty leaves with him without protest, which is how Jack knows he’s exhausted. Since their first year at McGill together—six years now, shit—Shitty has always loved a party. He’s good at them too, good at people and knowing how to interact with them, filling silence in a way that Jack was envious of when they were frosh and paired together during a language exchange in the dorms. The chip on Jack’s shoulder was deep enough that he pretended he didn’t know English in front of the loud, 18-year-old with an obnoxious Boston accent until Shitty got out google translate in an attempt to permeate the miserable silence that surrounded Jack. His French was so bad that Jack had to say something to save himself from the mispronunciations and even now, Shitty’s favourite way to make Jack laugh is mispronouncing words he knows Shitty knows how to say.

He also got Jack to try out for the hockey team in their third year of undergrad, saying that it would be way more fun with a friend and he was right. Sometime between being diagnosed with an anxiety disorder at thirteen—made worse with the constant comparisons to his dad, to Sid, to Kent, to what felt like every hockey player who’s ever made it to the show—and working his ass off for a country that abandoned him the second a bad giveaway lead to the American’s game winning goal in OT of the gold medal game, forgetting every one of his points that got Canada to the final in the first place, Jack had forgotten how fun hockey could be.

It’s a quiet walk back to their apartment. Jack thinks Shitty might’ve learned how to sleep while he walks, if the amount of times he has to be steered away from obstacles is any indication. Jack can’t stop thinking about what it would be like to play with a maple leaf on his chest again. He won silver the last time he did, but he hasn’t seen the medal since.

He wonders if it’d look different now, if it would be something to be proud of.

Their apartment is cold from a draft neither have been able to find the source of in the entire four years they’ve lived there, so Jack goes right to his room to kick off the dress clothes he bought with his mom especially for the occasion. He changes into a pair of well worn sweats and a university hoodie. Shitty follows him down the hallway and into his own room, dress pants and shirt rustling as he does the same. He passes on the sweats for a blanket draped around his naked shoulders and plays with the thermostat before joining Jack on the couch in his boxers.

“Fucking hate celsius,” he says, sticking his cold toes under Jack’s thigh while he spreads out his textbooks around him, settled into study while Jack queues up Netflix. It’s exactly how he told Shitty he was going to celebrate finishing his masters presentation. His parents will be back in town next week so they’ll go for a nice dinner and then he’ll be talked into at least one night out when Shitty’s done his trial, and they’ll celebrate their completed years, maybe with some of the guys from the team if the undergrad finals have also finished up by then. Or, probably even if they haven’t if Jack knows his team.

Jack rolls his eyes. “Fucking whiner, eh?” he says without heat. He smacks Shitty’s calf when he pinches his thigh with his toes, pulls the hairs that are finally growing back from when Shitty’s curiosity about shaving his legs won out, and chooses something with French audio, though Shitty is good enough at multi-tasking this far into the semester that he’ll probably still keep a running commentary while most of his focus will be on his books.

The documentary Jack settles on is one he’s seen before, which is a mistake he doesn’t release he’s made until the words fade to nothing beyond the narrator’s intonation. The ups and downs of the voice over blend together into a rushing sound as Jack’s brain gets stuck on a four-word loop.

_Hockey Canada is interested_

_Hockey Canada is interested_

_Hockey Canada is interested_

_._

_._

_._

_They shouldn’t be._

The last time Jack wore a Team Canada jersey, he was entering the American’s zone with the puck on his stick, set to flick it over to Cody, who was coming up on his wing. He wasn’t fast enough though, didn’t have the speed that Jack was used to playing with so the no look drop-back pass that Jack left at the blue line for ~~Parse~~ Cody was easily swept up by the American d-man, who passed through the neutral zone to go on breakaway no one was expecting because Jack had the puck. The goal horn went off and the rest of the Americans came onto the ice in a shower of sticks and gloves, shouting as they flew past Jack, still on the blue line, to jump on their goalie. OT rules; first goal wins. The Americans won. Unassisted goal.

The worst part about silver is losing. You lose gold to win silver and for that reason it’ll always hang heavier than bronze does, especially when it’s hung around your neck on home ice, in front of a home crowd whose dissatisfaction could be felt through the glass.

There are cameras on you the entire time, so you get two choices: either cry and get called too emotional by all the middle-aged talking heads whose short journeymen careers in the NHL were enough to become “analysts”, or keep a straight face so as not to give them any more fodder against you. Jack’s meds took the option away from him, able to numb him of all feeling, even as the mutterings of how he disappointed a whole country seemed to start before the team got in the handshake line.

They weren’t wrong to be disappointed.

The mutterings got louder after the tournament as the biggest mistake Jack’s ever made on ice—he’s made bigger off it now—was played and replayed on all the sports stations, over and over until the giveaway was the only thing Jack saw when he closed his eyes for most of 2009 until he didn’t see anything.

He still sees it sometimes, when it’s late and he wonders what it would it would have been like if he didn’t fuck up and actually made it to the NHL.

It’s a reminder of why he didn’t.

There’s so much expectation that comes when you put on your country’s sweater. Jack wasn’t strong enough to carry it the first time, and he doesn’t know if this time time could be different.

He wants it to be different. He’d give a lot for this time to be different, for a chance to prove that he’s more than the cause of the 2009 World Juniors loss, more than a headline, a what not to do in juniors, more than Bad Bob’s son who couldn’t hack it in the big leagues and had to settle for university instead. He’s more than that, or he can be. He can do better, he has to be better. Be better, be better—

“Jack?” Shitty’s voice cuts through the thoughts and suddenly everything in Jack’s brain whooshes back into places he doesn’t want to reach. He feels Shitty’s toe in his thigh, digging deep enough into the muscle that Jack might find a bruise there later, but he concentrates on that while the last thoughts of _can’t, not good enough_ fade away.

Jack clears his throat and pats at Shitty’s foot. He stops poking so hard, but he keeps his foot against Jack’s leg.

“Sorry,” Jack says, grateful for the touch.

“What do you need?” Shitty asks. He looks more awake than Jack has seen him in days, ready for a fight. Jack wonders if he’d be so willing if he knew it was Jack's brain he'd be fighting.

“Nothing, I’m good,” Jack says. “Really,” he adds when Shitty continues to look skeptical. “Just uh, got lost in my head for a bit.”

Shitty continues to stare for a minute. “You gonna to call your dad?” he asks carefully.

“My dad has nothing to do with Hockey Canada.” Jack rubs a hand across his forehead, and leans his head against the back of the couch. He hears Shitty open his mouth, so he continues. “Officially.”

“You gonna call Hockey Canada then?”

Jack blows out a breath. “No. Maybe… I don’t know, Shits.” He picks at a loose thread on the couch arm. “I want to. I mean, who would’ve thought that I’d get a chance to wear the sweater again. I shouldn’t waste the opportunity, right… what does my dad say? ‘You miss 100% of the shots you don’t take’ or some bullshit?”

There’s a pregnant pause, in which Jack looks up. Shitty’s brows are drawn together, and he mouths something to himself before saying,

“First of all, no disrespect to Papa Zed, but it’s important to me that you know he’s not the one who said that.”

Jack snorts. He knows; Uncle Wayne signs all his Christmas cards with that.

“Second,” Shitty continues. “You’re good, Jack.” He reaches out and squeezes Jack’s shoulder. “You’re enough. I’d love you all the same if you never played hockey again and did something with that fancy new degree you have. It’s your choice. But if you do call Canada, don’t do it because you’re Bad Bob’s son and feel like you have something to prove because of a game you played like fucking ten years ago. Do it ‘cause you’re Jack motherfucking Zimmermann and you just captain’d the Redmen to the finals while writing your master’s thesis, you fucking beauty.” He shakes Jack back and forth, ignoring his textbook and papers that slide out of his lap.

“Didn’t win.” Jack says, rationally he thinks because there’s always going to be a part of him that’s sore about that loss. They weren’t expected to get that far, coming off a rough season where half their team graduated—actually graduated, not just sticking around for grad or law school—but the incoming frosh more than filled the holes in the team, while the juniors and seniors stepped up when Jack got buried in masters work. Mitchy and Beaux more than deserved their A’s, he knows they’ll be good for the team next year.

Jack kicks the blanket off and goes to the floor to pick up Shitty’s papers before the draft blows them away. He’s never understood Shitty’s organization system, so he just piles them nicely together and sticks them and the textbook on Shitty’s lap.

“Competitive fucker,” Shitty says, though he sounds more fond than anything. Jack shrugs and gets a kiss on the forehead for his troubles. It’s more comforting than Jack knows what to do with, so he closes his eyes and leans his head against Shitty’s knee, trying to swallow past the swell of emotion in his throat.

“I got your back, whatever you do,” Shitty says softly, carding his fingers through Jack’s hair.

“Thanks Shits,” Jack says when he finds his voice again. Shitty hums in response. He taps out a light beat on the crown of Jack’s head.

“I’m getting hungry,” Shitty says, as Jack looks up. “D’you want pizza?”

“Do you mean you want me to order pizza?” Jack says, grinning when Shitty squawks in protest. He’s lived in Montréal for six years and his French is good, leagues ahead of where it was when he first came, but he still has a thing about talking on the phone, so usually tries to con Jack into calling places for food or making appointments. Jack gets up with his phone to get the number of their favourite pizza place off the menu that’s stuck to the fridge with the inappropriate magnets Shitty bought. Jack should really just save the number.

Ordering is easy; they haven’t changed their order since they finally agreed that all-dressed pizza has the best of both their favourites. He takes a minute before he goes back to the living room though, staring at the picture of the team from two seasons ago that Shitty insisted get the spot of honour on the fridge.

Objectively, it’s a bad picture. They’re sweating and disgusting; hair wet and plastered down and most of them have marks across their foreheads from their helmets. Shems’ nose is swollen, a leftover from a high stick in the third, Marcus has blood on his jersey and Aidan is on crutches. They’re all crowded around around the Championship trophy though, blatantly ignoring the photographer’s directions, leaving their spots to press another kiss to the trophy like it's the Stanley Cup. For most of them it was their Stanley Cup; NHL players don’t come from McGill.

The excitement was contagious that day though. Jack remembers the feeling mixed with relief that they did it when the final buzzer went, racing back to the net to pile on Lars, getting caught in the middle of a team group hug, and not recoiling from the touches. Jack wasn’t captain yet, he wouldn’t wear the letter until the next season when Sandro graduated and Jack stuck around for the masters’ program. And yet, Jack could look at every single one of them in a Redmen’s jersey and say he was proud to be one of them, both on and off the ice. He finally understood what people meant when they said their team was like a second family.

Jack sends a text before he goes back to the living room. He settles in next to Shitty, dragging a blanket off the other couch to wrap around himself. His phone buzzes before he can get completely comfortable, and he’s content to ignore it but it keeps buzzing as other texts come in.

 **> >Papa: **i’ll let them know

 **> >Papa:** unofficially

 **> >Papa: **see u for dinner next week

Jack bites the inside of his cheek.

 

**Spring 2017—Winter 2018**

_Canada_

_7..6..5..4..3..2..1 month until Opening Ceremony_

_/\\_ _/\\_ _/\\_

Jack walks the stage in June for the second time; twice more than he ever thought he’d go to a university commencement, let alone any of his own. Shitty sits with his parents and all three of them are loud when Jack’s name is called. His mom’s whistles pierce over everyone while Jack poses with the president of the university, smiling and blinking past the bright camera flashes, and then smiling some more when Shitty insists on getting a picture of Jack and his parents together with the freshly printed degree. The one with all four of them ends up being Jack's favourite of the day.

They go out for dinner, his dad pays, and winks every time the Olympics are brought up, even though everyone at the table are in on the joke. Jack’s been in contact with the coaches—an awkward phone call—but the rosters won’t be released until January so his anxiety tell him this could be some sort of elaborate joke. He’s heard there’s going to be a selection camp in early fall though, in part to select the team Canada’ll put on the ice for the Spengler Cup, partly for the World Juniors selection. Jack hasn’t officially been invited to it. It’s hard to work with “unofficially.”

He stays in Montréal all summer, training with the guys who stuck around for summer classes. Mitchy never shuts up when he spots Jack’s lifts, keeps a running commentary on every thought that comes into his head, which is nice because it keeps Jack out of his. Davidson is quieter, more reserved. He beats Jack in every single footrace, even though he’s got 10 pounds on Jack. His raised eyebrows say more than spoken chirp could.

Jack keeps going when they leave. He books himself ice time and sets the pylons out in familiar patterns, going back to basic drills that he did as a kid and pushing himself hard. From what his dad’s told him about the other names in consideration for the Olympic team, they’re coming out of the European leagues or the AHL or even the NCAA. Jack was already pushing it playing his last two years in the CIS during his masters, he can’t extend again, and he needs to keep sharp if he doesn’t want to be a wasted roster spot.

When training hard gets weird, deja-vu hitting him so hard that he’s half convinced he sees flashes of blond beside him, he goes to the library. Shitty’s there when he’s not working at some non-profit by the river, getting ahead in what course work he can for next year. It’s a nice reminder of how they worked together, elbow to elbow, throughout their university careers. Now Jack finds comfort between the stacks of books, and never has to look over his shoulder for ghosts like he once did.

(Instead the ghost keeps calling and texting him, telling Jack about what his cats have gotten into and moaning about how awful physiotherapy is for the knee he got replaced after the Aces were knocked out in the first round. Kent's acting like his Olympic ineligibility puts them at a level playing field again. Jack doesn't know how he feels about that, but he keeps answering, happy to have someone to complain about the training in turn.)

September comes sooner than Jack expects, and fades even quicker into October. Jack splits the month travelling between Montréal and Calgary—where Hockey Canada holds their training camps—and drafting a proposal for PhD research on his rest days. November is a blur of doctor’s appointments and Tylenol as Jack rehabs a broken foot after stupidly stepping in front of shot during the last day of camp. Most of December is spent in physiotherapy, carefully doing one-legged squats and other adjusted workouts to keep up his strength, and riding the bike or swimming for cardio. He really can’t afford to fall behind, so makes sure to follow every one of Rana’s instructions. It heals well, no complications beyond the panic attacks, first when he’s handed an oxy ‘script and then when he watches the Canadians take gold in Switzerland without him, his world selfishly narrowing to _they don’t need you_ , until he can breathe again.

For some reason, it’s easier to hear about the Juniors making it to the gold medal game in January. Jack can’t watch the tournament anymore, can’t stand the commentary that surrounds the under-20’s, who are still kids no matter how hard they’ve been pushed to be the best. He’s up and walking again, having left the walking boot back in 2017, so feels less useless now that he’s been back on the ice. He feels for the Swedish captain though, knows how a silver medal can choke you when it’s put around your neck.

And yet, despite the worry that he would be left behind again while the Spengler team goes to South Korea, his name is on the official Team Canada roster when it’s released on January 11, 2018.

“ZIMMERMANN!!!”

Jack catches an edge while going through a set of pylons and goes down hard when he hears his name shouted, losing the puck and his stick. He thought he’d be alone on the ice, coming in an hour or so before the women’s team is supposed to be here. He gets to his knees and glares at Mitchy who is standing on the visitor’s bench.

“What?” Jack asks. He resets the pylons that his fall took out and picks up his stick before skating over to the bench, legs a little shaky. It’s probably time for a break anyways.

“You fucking beauty!” Mitchy jumps down from the bench and swings his legs over the boards so he can kick his heels against them. He loses one of his sandals in the process and makes a face at Jack. Jack uses his stick to hand it back, eyebrow raised. ’Fucking beauty’ is Mitchy’s favourite way of greeting everyone, so he’s not entirely sure why Mitchy has come to the rink on what’s supposed to be a Redmen day off.

“Going to Pyo-peeoh-pyon, South Korea man!” Mitchy holds out a fist for Jack to bump.

“Oh,” Jack says. “Yeah.” He got the official phone call just before getting out on the ice and stuttered through the “thank-you-for-opportunity” before remembering that the other countries would be full of players from the leagues who didn’t play the dump and chase game that North American hockey seems to excels at.

Mitchy rolls his eyes. “What, not happy with two degrees, gotta go get some gold hardware too?”

“Here’s hoping,” Jack replies, squirting water in his mouth.

“Don’t be like that, man.” Mitchy punches Jack in the shoulder and he gets water all down the front of his sweater. “Have you seen the rest of the roster?”

Jack shrugs; he looked and just recognized some of the names from the guys he’d trained with before the Spengler Cup. They definitely weren’t big names in the hockey world. He doesn't know what that meant for their chances, and hates that he can't stop thinking it might matter.

“Fucking stacked with dudes from the A and the KHL and whatever-the-fuck the league in Europe is called.”

Mitchy gets Jack up to date on Team Canada while Jack cleans the pylons up, adding in his own personal commentary that Jack half thinks he’s just pulling out of his ass. Mitchy’s excited about the team though, seemingly everyone is a friend of someone he knows and he’s thrilled that they’re getting a chance to compete on a stage that is normally dominated by people who already play in an international spotlight. It’s another contagious excitement. By the time Jack has the pylons back on the bench and his skate guards back on, he’s excited too, in a way he hasn’t really let himself be when he thinks about playing for Team Canada. He doesn’t even remember being this excited when he was named to the World Junior Team.

It makes boarding the plane for the pre-tournament exhibition games much easier.

 

**January 28, 2018**

_Latvia_

_12 days until Opening Ceremony_

_/\\_ _/\\_ _/\\_

Jack’s first impression of Justin Oluransi is his bare ass, bent over as he digs in the suitcase on the far side of the hotel room they’re sharing.

“Uhh,” Jack says, frozen in the doorway, one hand still on the handle. The strap of his hockey bag digs uncomfortably into his shoulder, but all he can think about is following the curve of Oluransi’s asscheeks with his mouth, wondering if he could leave behind bite marks and _that_ needs to stop right now. He’s going to be a teammate, and Jack thought he got out of the habit of hockey players years ago.

“Oh fuck!” Oluransi twists and almost brains himself on the bedside dresser when he dives across the bed for the towel discarded there. He stands and wraps it around his hips, covering the important bits, and sheepishly smiling at Jack. Jack blinks back for a minute, glad that his default expression is hockey robot and he can hide behind that while he processes Oluransi’s… everything.

He’s probably one of the most attractive people Jack has ever seen—sharp cheekbones, kind eyes, big shoulders that taper down to a trim waist—stop looking; he’s a teammate. Team Canada isn’t the place. Jack’s been out to everyone who matters since before university, isn’t ashamed of his attraction to both men and women, but he’s been done with hockey players for a long time.

“Um, sorry—hi,” Oluransi says, waving awkwardly. He’s slow to lower his hand, tucking his thumb into the towel and almost losing it again in the process. “Shit.” He catches it just in time, shooting Jack another sheepish smile.

“Oluransi?” Jack asks dumbly, really trying hard not to stare at the way Oluransi’s stomach flexes as steps over his own open hockey bag and offering Jack a fist to bump.

“Yeah, man, sorry, I thought I’d have a bit more time before you got here.” He rolls his eyes at himself. “Lemme move my shit, and just, uh, get dressed.” He turns and kicks at the hockey bag that wasn’t in Jack’s way, pushing it right against the wall. Jack takes the hint; hoping his blush isn’t as obvious as it feels when he drops his hockey bag near the bed that’s his, and twists to pull his suitcase in from where it’d been propping the door open. He kicks his shoes off next to Oluransi’s.

He sits on the bed and fiddles with his phone, trying to connect to the hotel wifi to reply to a text from Shitty without going into his international data, while Oluransi ducks into his suitcase again for clothes.

“So sorry, I didn’t catch your name?” Oluransi says once he’s dressed.

Jack stares at him again, trying to figure out if it’s a joke. “Jack uh… Zimmermann,” he says slowly, when Oluransi’s curious expression doesn’t waver.

“Cool, I’m Justin, but the boys call me Ransom.” Oluransi—Ransom gestures vaguely at his shirt that has what Jack guesses is his university crest on it.

Jack recognises the well and sunset in the crest, vaguely connecting it to his mother’s alma-mater. He’s stuck on Ransom not recognising him to make a comment on it. Jack doesn’t think he’s got much of an ego, but he spent the last couple weeks after roster release screening his phone calls and dodging interview requests. ‘Zimmermann’ isn’t a name that gets ignored in the hockey world, even though it hasn’t been seen on professional ice in years. Jack got used to the non-recognition of his name with people in academia—historians don’t usually care about hockey, or last names associated with bringing the cup back to Montréal—and even enjoyed the blank stare that followed after the pregnant pause Jack was into the habit of leaving after he introduced himself. It’s not an awkwardness that he’s ever experienced with a hockey player though, whatever level he’s played at. He tried to keep his head down with the Redmen, but still someone on the other team usually had something to say to him about his father at the very least.

“Cool,” Jack echoes after too long. Ransom just nods, unfazed at the awkwardness and walks past Jack to go into the bathroom. Jack considers his suitcase, thinks about unpacking some of it into the wardrobe before they have to go downstairs to meet the rest of the team for their first official dinner. The wifi finally connects though and his phone dings and buzzes, probably double texts from Shitty, who tends to carry on a conversation with himself if Jack isn’t fast enough, but there might be texts from his parents too, so he slides back further on the bed, bringing his feet up to tuck under his knees.

“Wait.”

Jack starts a little at Ransom’s voice, not having heard the bathroom door open after Ransom clicked it shut.

“ _Jack_ Zimmermann!?” Ransom says, toothbrush in hand. There’s white toothpaste at the corner of his mouth—distracting—and Jack nods.

“Bro! Jet lag is killing me, but holy shit! My d-partner never shut up about the no-look Zimmermann-Parson in juniors—he said he had nightmares about your dangles. Jesus, he’s gonna flip when I tell him you’re my roommate.” The last sentence is said around his toothbrush and mostly to himself as he goes back to spit quickly before coming back out. “Small fucking world, eh?”

“Er, yeah,” Jack says. “Ha-ha.”

“Can you believe we’re here though?” Ransom continues, pulling on a Team Canada track jacket that matches one Jack has in his carry-on. “I think my whole family cried when I got the phone call. Like, full on sobs from my mama.”

“Yeah,” Jack says again. He’s only seen his mom cry once and it wasn’t when he told his parents he was going to the Olympics.

“’S wild.”

“Yeah.”

“One of the boys from Samwell signed with Philly just before Bettman made the announcement. I thought he was going to riot.”

“Sucks,” Jack says. He’s not sure if the statement needed a response. Ransom takes it though, nodding again and continuing.

“Hell, Holster is rioting. I’m legit surprised they haven’t taken his twitter away yet.” He gets his phone and taps it a couple times before turning it to show Jack. Jack squints down at the screen.

 **@Birkholtz04** : _does ur job give u time off for the olympics? mine neither :(_

Jack hands it back, a little unsure what he read. He doesn’t really understand twitter. “Uh, that's good?” he says, for lack of anything else.

“Oh—he plays for Seattle now. Adam Birkholtz,” Ransom explains, catching Jack’s confusion. The name rings a bell, though Jack doesn’t think he’d be able to pick Birkholtz out of a line up. “He played juniors too, but never made the American team due to injury so thought maybe this year would be his year.”

“Your d-man?” Jack asks.

Ransom’s face does something complicated before he settles on a nod, pocketing his phone. “Sure. Uh… dinner?”

“I'll change?”

Ransom nods and busies himself on his phone and Jack changes quickly, zipping up the same Team Canada sweater that Ransom’s wearing. He gets a grin and another fist bump and they’re out the door.

Dinner is busy; Jack tries to connect faces to names he remembers hearing the announcers mangle as they called the games. Guys come over to bump fists with Ransom, who grins brightly at each of them and greets them with nicknames that Jack isn’t in on yet, but is told to use anyways when Ransom introduces them to Jack. He's familiar with most of them from playing together in December. Ransom stops poking fun at himself for not recognising Jack after Jack almost bites a hole through his lip the first time he does it. Most of the team ask if Bad Bob’s coming to watch them play and Jack lies and tells them that he’s too busy to make the exhibition games, but will be in South Korea with them. That’s accepted at face value.

Everyone’s dressed in the same track jacket, and Jack’s glad he took the time to put his on even if it made him and Ransom the last down. There are only three others guys on the Olympic Roster that didn’t play in the Spengler Cup. Cale Lim, a speedy kid from B.C., was in Buffalo though, playing with the junior team so he’s at least used to the weight of the recent design of the maple leaf. The other guys, Logan Ellis and Patrick Tourex are old in hockey player years, at 34 and 37 respectively. Both played in the NHL for most of their 20’s before making the move to Europe. Tourex wears the C and Ellis would most likely have an A if he wasn’t a goalie. Jack watches them fit seamlessly into the group, probably brought in because they’re the only two on the team that have any sort of Olympic experience, having won gold in Sochi.

It might be his anxiety making him overthink everything, but eventually, even dressed in the same jacket, Jack starts to feel like the new guy in the locker room, an outsider looking in. He’s glad when Ransom makes noise about needing to call someone from home before the workday starts there, and Jack can follow him back to their room and get himself together before their first practice in the morning.

He checks that Ransom doesn’t need the bathroom, gets waved off as Ransom jumps on his bed and already dialling with one hand. Jack gets McGill sweats and clean boxers from his suitcase, plus the body wash that smells like home and goes into the bathroom to wash off the gross plane feel that he didn’t get a chance to before dinner. Jack turns the water as hot as it’ll go and lets it pound down into his muscles, sore from clenching and unclenching during the long flight over as he tried to distract himself from thinking of anything but where he was going. He turns and the spray hits places he knows will have bruises colouring them in the next month or so, almost a preemptive strike that he hopes isn’t jinxing them from going all the way.

Jack’s not sure how long he stands in the shower; it must’ve been a while though because the air is thick with steam when he turns it off and wraps himself in one of the scratchy white towels. It’s hot in the bathroom—uncomfortable now—so he cracks the door to let some of the steam out while he rubs lotion into his skin and brushes his teeth before bed.

With the door open and the water off, Jack can hear bits of Ransom’s half of the conversation in the hotel room.

“I’m so out of my fucking depth man, holy shit.”

There’s a pause. Jack should close the door, turn on the tap, something to block out the sound from this very personal conversation. He can’t make himself move.

“Bro. I was never supposed to play past Samwell. I should be _there_ watching you _here_ , fuck. I should’ve gone home after the Spengler.”

Another pause; Jack holds his breath.

“Okay. Okay. No, not going coral reef, that’ll come in South Korea probably. Alright, I will. Thanks bro.” Ransom sighs deeply and his voice gets a little softer. “I love you too, Hotzy.”

Jack closes the door.

 

**January 31, 2018**

_Latvia_

_9 days until Opening Ceremony_

_/\\_ _/\\_ _/\\_

Canada plays Germany in the first of two exhibition games. Not counting the pregame morning skate, it’s the second time the team has all been on ice together. They stumble through though, going into the third tied at four goals apiece.

The game is fast; Jack’s gassed at the end of each shift, even though he can’t be on the ice for more than 50 seconds at a time. He plays on a line that he hadn’t practiced with, Coach trying to figure out who works well together in game situations. Chip—the kid from juniors—is fucking fast on Jack’s wing, zooming around and reading exactly where Jack wants to put the puck. Danny—someone Jack recognises vaguely from StFX’s team, but never spoke to beyond the handshake line—is on his other side, and is a beast at nabbing the puck in the neutral zone and sending it back to Jack to set up a play. They click, and it’s mostly an accident but Jack can’t stop smiling when he skates into Chip after his second goal of the game.

“There ya go, Chipper!” Jack knocks his helmet against Chip’s, whose dimples are out in full force. It’s an exhibition game sure, but Chip is the youngest guy on both rosters—barely 18—and is holding his own against guys with forty-plus pounds on him, getting low and throwing elbows where he needs and Jack is having fun playing with him.

“Fucking sick, boys!” Chip shouts over the crowd, accepting Danny’s fist bump too as he comes in behind Jack for a liney celebration. The crowd’s not super big, probably fewer people that were at the Redmen’s playoff games last year, but they’re still loud and excited and the team shouts even louder, adding to the noise when Jack follows Danny to the bench. He’s still grinning as he watches Gio, Reigner, and Barty lineup for the face-off.

He helps himself to a water bottle, squirting it in his mouth before reaching behind to grab a towel to wipe at his visor. He slides down the bench, knocking Chip in the hip as Danny knocks into his. They lean forward, watch Skier whiff on a pass that the German centre gets in the perfect spot to take a shot. Holly bats it away with his blocker, and the bench seems to sigh collectively. Ransom bounces the puck off the boards; Coach taps Jack on the back.

“Zimmermann, go.”

Jack jumps over the boards, knows Chip and Danny are there with him. They don’t do much that shift beyond keeping the Germans in their own end and he’s still panting when they go back onto the bench and the buzzer goes ten seconds later, signalling the end of the period.

“Good game boys,” Coach says, clapping loudly as the players get up and shuffle down the tunnel.

“Fucking eh!!!” Zed shouts. He’s at the door of the dressing room, grinning and holding his fist out for bumps with everyone who passes him. “Beauties, all of you.”

“Be more Canadian there bud,” Reigner replies. He accepts the ass tap that he gets, though from the smack Jack hears from his stall, it wasn’t as nice as the one Zed gave Jack.

“Fuck off, Toronto.” Zed says cheerfully, over pronouncing the second 't'. That starts the whole dressing room off, stupidly bugging each other about their provinces and cities, but it’s fun because they’re coming off a win. This is the kind of team Jack hopes his brain lets him be proud of being a part of.

They continue chirping in the shower, louder to be heard over the spray of the water, until Coach yells that the bus will leave without them; they don’t have a game tomorrow so he doesn’t care if they walk the 5 km back. That kicks the team in gear, and most of them get into their game day suits still damp from the shower.

Jack gets on the bus listening to Gio defend Québec, arguing for late night poutine places that probably exist in other provinces but definitely aren’t as good, and sits in the first empty row he finds while Gio keeps going to the back of the bus to sit with Parker. Jack shoves up against the window when Ransom raises an eyebrow at the seat next to him. He drops heavily into it just as the bus pulls away from the curb.

“Toronto, eh?” Jack says, pronouncing both 't'’s. Ransom had been very adamant in that debate. He knocks his knee into Jack’s thigh and leaves it there, so Jack feels it bounce. He resists the urge to reach out and still it; this isn’t Shitty or Mitchy coming down from their post game highs. Ransom has a big high to come down from too; he scored the first goal.

“That was fun,” Ransom says after a beat. His knee has slowed down.

“Yeah,” Jack agrees. He’s not lying.

 

**February 2, 2018**

_Latvia_

_7 days until Opening Ceremony_

_/\\_ _/\\_ _/\\_

_“There’s two minutes and forty left in the third, Slovakia is leading Canada two goals to one. Zigo clears the puck from in front of the Slovakian net, giving Janus—who’s been nothing short of incredible here—a break. Oluransi gets the puck at centre, and—”_

_“OH, the defender falls.”_

_“Dravecky takes advantage, scooping up the puck. Khaira can’t catch him. Dravecky on a breakaway, he beats Ellis and— shoots, scores! Goal! Slovakia extends their lead, 3-1.”_

_“Justin Oluransi looks like he lost an edge in what should have been a simple play.”_

_“That’s gonna hurt the Canadians.”_

_“I don’t know if it’s a reflection of where the Canadians are without the NHL players, or the type of players Slovakia has been able to put together from the European leagues, but wow, this game has showed this definitely isn’t what we’ve come to expect from Canada.”_

_“I think it’ll be the Zimmermann line on the ice for this face-off. Now, there’s a guy who we all expected at the last Olympics, with Crosby, Benn, and Subban.”_

_“He’s been playing with McGill’s team, putting up decent numbers, though his productivity went down in his last season.”_

_“Disappointing to say the least. I thought he’d for sure follow Bad Bob into the league. I didn’t hear about any teams making him offers though.”_

_“Canada is keeping the same line from the game against Germany, Zimmermann in the middle with Cale Lim and Daniel Díaz on his wings. Lim might be one of the youngest guys in the tournament. He’s been playing with Erie. Definitely expected to go first round in June this year. And Díaz’s rights belong to Montreal, but he’s been playing in Laval all year.”_

_“Puck’s dropped and Zimmermann loses the draw to Mikík, who sends it Suja. Suja crosses the blue line with Díaz on him. Díaz gets the puck; over to Lim who almost gives it Kudrna. Lim will gain control, puts it on his net. Ellis makes the save. Suja’s there for the rebound and scores!”_

_“Jakub Suja was given a gift there from Lim, what was he doing?”_

_“Lim tried to send it back to Cameron Tryniski I think, but Tryniski left it. A lack of communication maybe?”_

_“Lim’s mad; he’s back on the bench and absolutely fuming.”_

_“That was brutal.”_

_“Two goals in the last thirty seconds? I don’t know if Canada can get it back with the way they’ve played so far. Ellis was all that was keeping them in the game, but he can only do so much.”_

_“They’re still finding their footing, Mike.”_

_“Wonder what head coach Shawn Ito will to have to say in the dressing room.”_

_“Slovakia 4, Canada 1 with just over two minutes left to play.”_

_“Let’s see what the Canadians can do.”_

 

The game ends 5-1.

Jack takes a long shower. He’s not the only one; although, Chip might just be crying under the spray. Jack can’t hear much over the sound of the water so he’s not sure. He wouldn’t know what to say anyways, was never able to really be a good captain until he had a year or so with the McGill guys under his belt, and it felt like his A’s did more work with the team off the ice than he did sometimes.

He’s not the only one at a loss for words, though Coach tries his best, leaving the locker room with a, “nothing counts here boys; we’ll do better next time.” It feels like there was more at stake than there should’ve been during a pre-tournament exhibition game.

The bus is pretty quiet on the way back to the hotel, except Mac and MC continue an argument that started yesterday about the extra ‘a’ in Mac’s last name. Neither sound overly invested, just like they’re just going through the motions to ease the overwhelming silence that followed from the locker room.

It was a bad game; passes didn’t connect, no one could read each other, and the Slovakian team took every advantage that they were given. Jack’s glad that they don’t have to do press until later in the tournament—even they even make it there, fuck—couldn’t imagine trying to get through an interview right now. He understands intellectually that they’re working through growing pains of a new team. But, there’s an unspoken expectation that Canada should play the best hockey in the world and it settled heavily on the ice as soon as Slovakia got the first goal, a reminder that those on the ice weren’t Hockey Canada’s first choice to be here. It pressed into Jack from all sides at the second goal, the third, the fourth. The fifth was a redirect from his own stick. He feels vaguely sick knowing that this was the game that CBC aired back home.

Jack’s relieved when they get back to the hotel.

“Take the night off, pack your shit. Flight out tomorrow, bright and early so download all your plane movies now,” Tourex reminds them all, elbowing his way down the aisle to be first off the bus. “Shake it off boys, ’s just one game. Doesn’t even count.” He goes and stands in the lobby of the hotel to do his captain-thing, smacking shoulders with anyone he can reach.

«  _Don’t beat yourself up Zimmermann, it’s not a good look, »_  Tourex says in French as Jack passes him. Jack rolls his eyes slightly, but pauses and doesn’t immediately shrug Tourex's hand off when he grasps Jack’s shoulder and gives him a shake. He knows that Tourex is doing what he needs to as a captain, can appreciate it all the more since it’s been some time since Jack wasn’t the most senior player.«  _Watch Ransom will you? He’s taking the loss hard._   _»_

Jack looks at Tourex, but he’s already moved past him to knock fists with EZ, so can’t ask him what he means. Ransom was quiet on the bus, his fingers bouncing in time with his knees as he worked off extra energy from the game. He took the window seat, and didn’t look up when Jack sat beside him, through his knee started going double time. Jack thought that is just how he deals with losses but does what his captain asks and hurries to catch the elevator with Ransom and Chip.

“Good game, eh?” Jack offers as the elevator dings at their floor, nudging Chip with an elbow. Jack winces at the double snort from both of them. Ransom gets off without saying anything and leads the way down the hallway.

“You don’t have to lie man, I’m not some rookie you need to placate,” Chip says, scoffing.

“Okay,” Jack replies, though he had planned on continuing with what he and Mitchy found worked best with the frosh on the team.

“I mean, I fucking sucked, it was fucking embarrassing... Jesus, look out NHL, here I come, fucking own goals and all.” The sarcasm does little to hide the bitterness in Chip’s voice. “Just have to do better next time. Have to be better.”

They reach the room he’s sharing with Stephens and Chip goes inside before Jack can remember what Shitty says when Jack gets stuck in a cycle of _be better_ , _be better_ , _be better._

Ransom doesn’t say anything to Jack after he gets their door unlocked, going right into the bathroom and clicking that door shut behind him. The water turns on a few seconds after. Jack toes off his shoes and goes to find his sweats; thinking that he'll say something to Ransom after his double shower.

Once Jack’s game day suit is hung nicely, he pokes at the power button on the TV and is greeted with the Slovak version of what has to be Sesame Street. Or at least he hopes the puppets talking to children is a show for kids. He leaves it on though, looking for background noise, something to keep him from drifting too far into his head while he packs up the mess he managed to make on his side of the room. Bright numbers and cartoon farm animals catch Jack’s eye while the little puppets repeat the same couple words over and over again on the TV. Jack gets distracted when he realises the show is teaching basic vocabulary. He ends up abandoning his packing, sitting on the edge of the bed to try and wrap his tongue around the new words.

The episode finishes and Jack knows how to count to ten in Slovak, can recognize the word for ’cow,’ ‘sheep,’ and ‘pig’ but isn’t able to pronounce the names, and has sufficiently reminded his brain that it was just an exhibition game they lost and really doesn’t make a difference in the long run. He is wondering if Chip would appreciate it if Jack went and knocked on his door when Jack's phone rings. Jack grabs it from the pile of folded clothes that should be in his suitcase by now and looks to see an unknown contact trying to call him through WhatsApp. He swipes up to answer the call, fully expecting it to be his mom. She has been having troubles setting up her app and said she would call when she figured it out but the deep voice that returns Jack’s greeting is definitely not his mother.

“Uh, wrong number,” Jack says, taking the phone away from his ear and going to hang up.

“Wait!” the voice shouts with a sense of urgency. “Is this Jack Zimmermann?”

Jack furrows his brow; he’s done a really good job of keep his phone number private and will be really annoyed if he has to try and change it while he’s in another country. “Who is this?”

“Adam Birkhotlz. Hey, I need—”

“What?” Jack recognises the name as Ransom’s teammate that’s in the NHL now.

“Look, Kent Parson gave me your number. I need you to do me a favour.”

“Sorry?”

Birkholtz tuts impatiently. “Just, is Ransom there? He’s not answering his phone and didn’t text me after the game.”

“Uh.” Jack looks to the direction of the bathroom. He can still hear the water running. “He’s in the shower right now, I can pass on a messag—”

“He’s not in the fucking shower. Fuck, he’s in coral reef mode.”

“What?”

“Zimmermann, I need you to check on him, please. I’ll buy you a drink or tickets or something, just please.” Birkholtz sounds annoyed, but his voice cracks on the last syllable, letting something that sounds like panic out.

Jack gets up and goes to the bathroom door. He knocks once, and then louder when that doesn’t get an immediate response. Birkholtz is quiet on the phone, like he’s listening just as intently as Jack is.

“Ransom? Uh, I’m talking to uh—”

“Holster.”

“Holster and he wants me to check on you, okay?” Jack pauses again, waiting for an answer that doesn’t come. He twists the doorknob, relieved when it’s not locked and goes in. He almost trips on Ransom’s legs, as he’s somehow folded himself into the space between the tile floor and the sink, lying on his side so his back is against the wall. Ransom’s hands are covering his face, shaking slightly and his toes keep curling and uncurling.

Jack has never seen a panic attack from this side before.

“Zimmermann?”

“Uh, he's curled up in a ball under the sink,” Jack says, tucking the phone between his cheek and shoulder. He feels weird talking about Ransom like he’s not there, but he still hasn’t acknowledged that Jack is in the bathroom.

Birkholtz lets out a sigh. “Fuuuck. Um, would you give him the phone?”

Jack crouches and kind of holds the phone out before realising that there’s no chance that he’ll be able to get the phone near enough Ransom’s ear to hear Birkholtz without touching Ransom. Jack knows that he doesn’t like to be touched by strangers when he’s having a panic attack, and he’s not sure how Ransom might react to him. He gets up and reaches to turn off the water. The bathroom feels eerily quiet after that; Jack can actually hear how quickly Ransom’s breath is coming behind his hands.

“I’m putting you on speaker.” Jack taps the button on the screen and sits with his back against the doorframe to get the phone as close to Ransom as possible.

“Rans, buddy?”

Ransom makes a noise that sounds like a mix between a sob and an inhale, like the breath physically hurt him.

“You didn’t call me after your game babe, I got worried.”

Jack’s intruding on a very private conversation again.

“I wanted to tell you,” Birkholtz continues. “Kent Parson retweeted me. That tweet about the Olympics? It’s gone viral; Buzzfeed picked it up and put it on one of those lists you hate.”

“They don’t source properly,” Ransom mutters.

“But you know how I always wanted to be featured on one of those? Did it, baby.”

Birkholtz keeps talking, and Jack does his best to tune it out, angling his body away for some semblance of privacy. He jumps when his wrist is touched and he sees Ransom gently take the phone and press it to his ear. His face is wet. Jack leaves the bathroom as fast as he can, closing the door behind him so he doesn’t hear anything else he’s not supposed to.

The TV is still on, but the episode has changed to something about school supplies. Jack can’t remember the numbers or animals and the show doesn’t hold the same appeal as before. He doesn’t have his phone either so he does what he meant to and packs.

He’s just put a pile of t-shirts on top of the extra dress pants his dad recommended he bring when the bathroom door opens again.

Ransom’s shoulders are drawn up to his ears, and he’s hunched in on himself in a way that he wasn’t even when Jack walked in on him naked.

“Uh, sorry, I didn’t realise this was your phone,” he says, holding out the phone. _End call, 20 minutes_ is still blinking on the screen. Jack takes it. Ransom nods and crosses over to his bed to dig through his suitcase. His suit is wrinkled from being on the floor, and it stays that way when he throws it on the bed as he changes into pyjamas.

“I’m anxious,” Jack blurts out.

“Uh?” Ransom’s brows draw together. “Sorry?”

“No, I mean, I uh, also have anxiety—if that's what, um..”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. I uh…” Jack grasps at words, not sure where he wanted to go with this when he started it, but feeling like it should get out. “I get it? I guess. Like, I um, I just… I know.”

“Oh,” Ransom repeats softly, hugging himself. “I’m not supposed to be here y’know. I’m supposed to be in med school. Or like, at a desk job, I dunno. Hockey wasn’t meant to be anything more than beer league after I graduated. Something to do for fun.”

Jack nods slowly; he gets that too. After he got serious and applied for the Master’s program, he really was ready to let go of the dream, the possibly that ‘Zimmermann’ would been on professional ice again. The text from his dad changed everything, and Jack’s still undecided if that’s a good thing or not.

“Today wasn’t fun,” Jack says when it looks like Ransom’s gotten lost in his head. Ransom barks out a laugh.

“Fuck no, today was terrible. It sucked.”

“You guys did really well in Switzerland,” Jack says. Ransom’s is a name that he remembers the commentators stumbling over. He lead the tournament in points by a defensemen, and came very close to tournament MVP.

“I’m half convinced it was a fluke still,” Ransom says. He huffs and shakes his head. “I know it’s dumb. But… anxiety.” He shrugs.

“Anxiety,” Jack agrees. Ransom looks at Jack, making eye contact with him for the first time all evening. He smiles. Jack smiles back.

“Thanks for uh, talking to the Holtzy, by the way. He worries.” Ransom turns away to start his packing.

“Yeah, no problem,” Jack says. “He seemed… nice?”

“He’s not,” Ransom laughs. “He’s such an asshole. But like, mine, y’know?”

Jack nods. “Sure.” He doesn’t think he and Shitty have the same relationship that Ransom and Birkholtz do, especially with the pet names Birkholtz was throwing around,, but he thinks he understands the gist.

They click off the lights once their suitcases are zipped up, setting alarms on both phones. Ransom’s breathing evens out pretty quickly, he’s probably both physically and mentally exhausted from the game and the panic attack. Jack gets it. His brain doesn’t turn off though and he stares at the ceiling for a long time.

 

**February 4, 2018**

_Riga International to Incheon International_

_5 days until Opening Ceremony_

_/\\_ _/\\_ _/\\_

The team has breakfast at the airport, and everyone seems to be in better spirits, or at least, everyone is too tired at 4 am to keep dwelling on the game before the flight to South Korea. Lim and Sutton must’ve watched the same program Jack turned on last night because they’re proudly counting to ten to anyone who’ll listen, and Mac and MC are bickering about some pizza places in Nova Scotia that Danny also seems to have an opinion on and it’s chaos, and they’re still a team. Win or lose.

14-hours later, they land in Incheon and go through customs relatively painlessly, considering there's 25 of them plus an entire coaching, medical, and social media staff. This is the first time they travelled together as the Canadian Men’s Hockey team for Pyeongchang so they’re corralled into a team photo with the Olympic mascot statues by Becka on the social media team. Jack looks around, surrounded by teammates, and feels settled.

“Kimchi!” They all say when Becka counts to three, at Parker’s insistence that this is how his Korean-Canadian parents made him and his sister take pictures growing up.

Jack looks at the photo up on Team Canada’s instagram as they wait for the bus to come bring them into Seoul. Their smiles are big and cheesy, but genuine and whatever Canada expects from them, they can’t take away from the fact that they all made it here.

Jack double taps to like the picture.


	2. Team Canada

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Image of Canada’s 2018 Men’s Olympic Hockey Team with Team Canada scarves wrapped around their necks as they stand in front of a Seoul City Tour bus. The Korean driver and tour guide are in the centre of the photo. Everyone is smiling widely and holding up peace signs]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im literally posting this on the train to pyeongchang after writing the last 1k on my phone so any and all mistakes are most definitely the fault of my clumsy thumbs and too much excitement ^^
> 
> i tried to stay true to the olympic schedule/how they do things but i still made a shit ton up cause either google wasnt helpful or i didnt like the answers it gave me.  
> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

Part Two: Team Canada

 

**February 6, 2018**

_Seoul, South Korea_

_3 days until Opening Ceremony_

 

_/\\_ _/\\_ _/\\_

[Image of Canada’s 2018 Men’s Olympic Hockey Team with Team Canada scarves wrapped around their necks as they stand in front of a Seoul City Tour bus. The Korean driver and tour guide are in the centre of the photo. Everyone is smiling widely and holding up peace signs]

_Liked by jzimmermann, cale-chipsRgood, mc.mcdonald, and 7,203 others_

**hockeycanada** after two exciting exhibition games in Latvia, our boys have made it to South Korea, and are hanging out in Seoul before going to #PyeongChang later this week! Between ice time at Seoul University and trying as much Korean food as possible, they’ve been touring the city and learning a little about Korean culture. Thanks to Park Ji-min and Choi Woo-sung for showing us around! ^^

 

It’s much colder in South Korea than Jack expected. He realises this is ridiculous—he’s here for the Winter Olympics after all—but he stepped out of the Incheon airport and into a burst of cold and realised just how little he knew about South Korea, including that it’s still in the Northern Hemisphere, and gets cold winters too.

There’s a bite in the air unlike the one he knows from Montréal, the wet cold cutting through his layers and sinking into his bones. He tucks his chin into the collar of the vest he wore instead of a full jacket—he really should’ve taken the hotel lady’s warning about the weather a little more seriously—and wishes that he had a scarf that isn’t branded in Team Canada red and white, as a gust of wind picks up and blows through the doorless corridor of the outer walls of Gyeongbokgung Palace.

The team has the afternoon off, their first break from each other since they got into Seoul two days ago and last break before they travel to the athlete’s village tomorrow. The rest of the team is either shopping in one of the best people watching neighbourhoods in the country, resting back at the hotel, or are looking for the sheep cafe that someone on the women's team told Chip about.

Jack was tempted by the sheep cafe, but yesterday, he had listened carefully when their tour guide, Park Ji-min, started talking about the history of the city on bus tour, making notes on his phone because he was curious to learn about a part of history he’d never really taken the time to focus on before. Park Ji-min happily sat next to Jack during their dinner and filled in as many blanks as he could, but eventually just told Jack to go to Gyeongbokgung Palace, the biggest of the five in Seoul, that also a museum attached. Jack was sold on the idea as soon Park Ji-min mentioned there is a near daily historical reenactment of the changing of the guards.

He almost misses the afternoon reenactment after spending the morning reading through the museum, distracted by taking pictures of the gorgeous outside archways of a side building itself, but the sudden burst of traditional instruments remind him why he braved the Seoul Subway system alone to come to the palace. He sticks his phone in his pocket for the walk over to the main gate where the ceremony is held and where the music is coming from. There’s a small crowd already gathered to watch the men in bright tradition uniforms parade around as they carry even brighter flags. It’s easy to find a spot to watch though, and he gets his phone out again, switching into the camera app and wishing, not for the first time, that he had thought to bring his actual camera. There’s so much colour and vibrance in Seoul that he’s not sure his phone’s camera can pick it all up.

A woman’s voice announces that the old guards are checking the new guards’ identification in three different languages and they switch places as the beat of a drum starts up again and the old guards and flag bearers leave the courtyard in another colourful parade. The crowd starts to break up. Jack sticks around, hoping maybe to get a better picture now that there are less people. It pays off and he gets a couple good shots of the gate and the guards. The stray tourist that’s also in the picture will be easy to crop out. Jack turns on his data to put the picture in a message to Shitty, too excited to wait until he’s back on hotel wifi to share. Shitty’s response is almost instant, and would’ve been more concerning if Jack didn’t know his late night study habits.

 **> >Shitty:** _BRO COOL!_

 **> >Shitty:** _lemme see ur beautiful face tho, i miss u :’(_

 **> >Shitty:** [image attached]

Jack snorts at the picture of what Shitty thinks are his puppy dog eyes, but he still double taps on the screen, flipping to the front camera. He turns so his back is to the main gate, and holds his arm out, trying to find the angle where his face and the gate are both in the screen. He finds it, then almost drops his phone when he goes to press the button, the angle weird on his wrist. Maybe he should've spent less time chirping Chip for the stick he bought to take pictures of himself. Jack tries again, arm outstretched and his phone doesn’t fall this time, but he all he gets is a really nice picture of the inside of his nose. That goes in the message to Shitty anyways.

“Do you want me to take a picture for you?”

Jack looks up. There’s a guy in front of him, more fabric than anything else as he’s bundled in one of those long puffy jackets that are the style here. His blond hair sticks out of the toque he has perched on the crown of his head and Jack wants to point out that that's not the proper way to wear a winter hat if you want to stay warm, but he can’t find the words, distracted by the guy’s big brown eyes and the little dimples that come out with his half smile. He’s gorgeous, almost annoyingly so with his nose and cheeks pink from the cold.

“Uh.” Jack finds his voice. “Thanks.”

The guy holds his hand out and Jack passes his phone over, taking it back sheepishly when they realise that it locked itself. He taps in his password and hands it back with a quiet, “ah, sorry.”

The guy backs up a couple steps, and raises Jack’s phone to eye level. “Alright, one, two, three, smile!” he says.

Jack thinks he smiles, but the guy scrunches his face in concentration as he leans back to take another picture, and Jack isn’t sure what his face is doing anymore, distracted by the pink of the guy’s tongue. He switches how he holds the phone from vertical to horizontal once, twice, and then hands Jack’s phone back with the same half smile that he took it with.

“I hope they’re okay,” he says. “I’m much better at selfies.” He chuckles, running a hand through his hair and almost losing his toque in the process.

“Well, you saw how well I did with those,” Jack says. The guy huffs a laugh, wrinkling his nose. Jack wouldn’t mind hearing that sound more. He feels warm around his collar as he looks down and flips through the pictures. His smile is more of a squint in the first couple, but it softens and towards the end, and the guy found a setting to zoom out enough so that Jack and the gate are both in the frame. He puts that one in the group chat with his dad, mom, and Shitty and then remembers his manners, sliding his phone in his pocket.

“They’re great, thank you,” he says, ignoring the buzzing that means Shitty is still awake and has seen the picture.

“Of course.” the guy smiles. “Anything to help a fellow tourist.”

“Ha-ha, what gives it away?” Jack asks. The guy takes a second to look Jack over, from his toes up all the way up his body. Jack feels the heat of his gaze the entire time and shoves his hands in his pocket. The guy meets Jack’s eyes as the wind picks up and shivers violently as he shrinks deeper into his jacket in attempt to stave off the chill.

“Not used the cold?” Jack asks, trying to stifle his own shivers.

“Lord no,” the guy shakes his head. ”Spent four winters in Mass and still can’t stand being outside in winter without a hot drink.”

“D’you want to go get one now?” Jack blurts out. “Er, if you’re done here I mean.” The guy blinks at him, head tilted slightly, and Jack blinks back, wondering where the boldness came from, though not willing to take it back. It’s his only afternoon off from his team, and if he wants to try embarrass himself in front of a cute guy, well, that’s his business.

“Oh um, I am. That’d be great, uh—”

“Jack.” Jack holds out a cold hand and tries not to blush when the guy takes it and squeezes.

“Yeah. Nice to meet you, I’m Bitty,” he says, wrinkling his nose a little. “Nickname that I can’t seem to shake.”

“Wonder why,” Jack can’t help but say. Bitty is at least half a head shorter than him and looks even smaller in his jacket. Bitty’s fingers tighten around his.

“Ha-ha, haven’t heard that one before,” Bitty says, rolling his eyes, but a slight smile stays on his face.

Jack grins at Bitty and Bitty smiles back and it takes a long, awkward moment for Jack to realise that they’re still holding hands. Jack lets go, definitely blushing now.

“Oh, uh—I think there’s cafes uh—” He points over Bitty’s shoulder, away from the palace and across the busy intersection.

“You can’t walk ten feet without hitting a cafe here,” Bitty says, but he turns and walks in the direction Jack indicated, seemingly unbothered by Jack pointing out the obvious. “Do you have a favourite?”

“Cafe?” Jack hurries to catch up to walk next to Bitty, his legs taking long steps. Bitty hums the affirmative. “Uh, no, sorry.” They’d stopped at a one one yesterday when MC fell asleep in the back of the bus though Jack doesn’t remember what the place was called.

“Er, there’s a sheep cafe?” he offers as they start to cross the street.

“A what?”

“Eh, a friend was telling me? I uh, don’t know actually know where it is though, heh, sorry.”

Jack steps up onto the curb and Bitty grabs his elbow suddenly, stopping him from walking into the path of a delivery man on a moped who jumped the curb to get around the traffic. The watch him zip through the other people on the sidewalk before going back into the street and cutting around the vehicles there.

“We’ll find one,” Bitty assures Jack and they keep walking.

Jack pauses at the door of the first cafe on the street, but Bitty makes a face and pulls Jack past it. Jack feels the heat of his hand even through his layers, and he hopes his blush blush isn’t as obvious as it still feels. They walk in a comfortable silence for half a block.

“So, Canada?” Bitty asks as he herds Jack into the doorway of his chosen cafe.

“What makes you say that, eh?” Jack asks, doing his best impression of Chip’s Canadian bro accent. He’s rewarded with Bitty’s laugh and Jack feels a warm buzzing in his stomach as he holds the cafe door open. Bitty goes through with a “thank you” but before Jack can follow, a couple comes out and he ends up holding the door open for them, and then for a guy in headphones that comes out behind them and a women wearing clicks heels that goes in before Jack. Bitty’s still laughing when Jack walks through the blast of hot air from the heater above the door.

The menu printed on the wall is in both Hangul and English. Jack looks up at it while the line moves forward. He orders a cafe latte, nodding when the barista repeats the order back to him, and they both look at Bitty, who is still staring at the menu.

“What’d you want?” Jack asks.

“Oh.” Bitty jumps, eyes wide and takes a step back. “You don’t have to—“

“It’s fine,” Jack says. “I’m good for it, eh?”

Bitty watches him another second before shaking his head and saying to the barista. “Um, caramel macchiato, please.”

The barista nods and punches the order into the computer to tell Jack the total. His brain stutters over the extra zero at the end as he hands over his credit card, before remembering the exchange rate, and the barista swipes and hands the card back along with the receipt and what looks like a plastic beeper.

“It buzzes when the drinks are finished,” the barista explains slowly. Jack feels his eyebrows raise; too impressed by the innovation to be offended by the little smile the barista is wearing. “Take out or for here?”

“Uh…” Jack looks at Bitty’s, who’s looking at the table in the corner and rubbing his hands up and down his arms, making a swishing sound against the fabric as he tries to warm himself up. “Here, please.”

Jack leads the way over to the two-seater table, gently nudging Bitty as he passes. Bitty makes a soft noise of surprise inthe back of his throat, but follows with a small smile. Jack puts the buzzer down in the center of the table and almost knocks over the table beside it with his ass trying to squeeze by to sit on the bench seat. He feels himself flush, embarrassed. The buzzer buzzes before he can get through fully, and he snatches that off the table quickly to go get their drinks.

There’s two mugs on a tray under the ‘pick-up’ sign that Jack is pretty sure are his and Bitty’s. His hesitation must be obvious because the barista, catches his eye and nods, pushing the tray further out to him and he takes it with a soft “thank you,” using the little bit of Korean that Parker taught them on the bus ride from Incheon to Seoul.

Bitty has squeezed through the gap between the tables and is sitting on the bench when Jack sets the tray down at the table, his jacket off and bunched around his waist to reveal a burgundy hoodie stretched across shoulders much broader than Jack was expecting. He thought that extra bulk Bitty was carrying came from the jacket. Jack tries not to stare at how wrong he was, as Bitty takes the mug with caramel drizzle, wrapping his hands around it and breathing deeply.

“Thanks Jack,” Bitty says. Jack sits in the chair and drags his mug towards him. There’s a heart in the foam.  

“Euh, so, what about you?” Jack asks.

“What about me what?” Bitty tilts his head.

“Where’re you from?”

“Oh.” Bitty takes a sip, smacking his lips. “My accent doesn’t give it away?”

“I haven’t heard enough of it.” Jack shakes his head, ducking down to take a sip of his latte. He licks at the foam he can feel stuck on his upper lip, and then grabs a napkin when he feels Bitty still staring at him. He pats at his mouth self-consciously.

Bitty clears his throat. “Um, Georgia,” he says.

Jack nods; his understanding of American geography is better than what he knows about Korea, but all he knows about Georgia is that it south. Ish. Probably.

“Down south.” Bitty confirms, pausing to grin over the lip of the mug like he wants to say more, but is holding back. His smile isn’t unlike the one that Davidson gets when he’s thought of a good chirp and is waiting for the right moment to say it.

“Right,” Jack says. He knocks his feet into Bitty’s, who grins wider at that, like he knows his unspoken chirp landed. “Geography has never been my forte.”

“No?” Bitty leans forward. “What is your forte then?”

Jack pauses. He tastes ‘hockey’ on the tip of his tongue—that’s what he’s here for after all—but he swallows it down. History carries a weight some days, especially when Jack thinks too hard about everything it’s taken from him with one hand while offering him a closed fist with the other. He takes a deep breath and says, “History.”

Bitty’s eyebrows go up. “Not what I expected,” he says after a beat.

Jack shrugs awkwardly. “What’re you good at?”

“Baking.” Bitty doesn’t even hesitate; he’s so sure in his answer. It’s not what Jack expected either.

“Baking?” he repeats, trying to keep the disbelief out of his voice. Bitty’s eyes narrow a little.

“You haven’t lived until you’ve tried my pie.”

Jack raises an eyebrow, and that was the right thing to do if Jack wanted to hear more of Bitty’s accent. It’s sweet, soft when he talks about baking as a kid at home and cooking at his mama’s knee and there’s a exasperated fondness that comes out while he talks about trying to teach his roommates in university how to bake. Jack stays captivated however Bitty’s voice comes out though, and he can’t help but ask what are probably stupid questions to make the conversation last longer. Bitty’s smile is warm every time Jack interjects, and it’s comfortable the way he answers and asks Jack questions too, even as he admits to having hated most of the history classes he took in university.

Their mugs have long gone cold when Jack picks them up to put back on the tray, surprised that they’ve talked for so long without him noticing. He waits while Bitty struggles into his big coat and they leave with a cheery wave from the baristas, holding the door again for another couple coming into the cafe. Bitty starts walking in a random direction when Jack shrugs when asked about the rest of his plans for the afternoon. Jack is happy to follow, unwilling to let the afternoon end entirely.

“Oh, have you tried those?” Bitty stops dead in the middle of a sidewalk, causing other pedestrians to dodge around him. He’s pointing at what looks like a small red tent in on the corner of the sidewalk that smells delicious as steam billows out from cracks in the side. There’s a woman inside behind a metal counter that has what looks like a fish made out of bread lined up on the top shelf. Whatever she’s cooking smells delicious. Jack shakes his head, causing Bitty to make a sound of disbelief. He grabs Jack’s arm.

“You have to. I can’t remember what they’re called in Korean—I’m so bad with languages—but they’re like, a bread pastry filled with a sweet paste or something? I don’t know, but I had one yesterday and hand to heart, I’m still thinking about it.”

He’s pulled Jack under the awning and nods and smiles at the woman, gesturing at the fish. The woman holds up two fingers and Bitty nods again so she gets a paper bag. She uses tongs to put six of the fish pastries into the bag. Jack looks over the counter as she works; there’s a vat of what he recognises as spicy rice cakes and vegetables, plus a griddle that full of what look like fluffy pancakes cooking. To her left is a metal fish mould, splatter with batter and smoking slightly. She catches Jack’s eye as he watches and with a wink, puts an extra fish at the top of the bag.

“Very fresh,” she says, handing the bag over. Bitty takes it, but puts it right in Jack’s hands, who almost drops it, unprepared for how hot it is, despite the woman’s words. Bitty’s hands disappear into his pockets and he comes out with a red five thousand won note and hands it over to the woman. She gives him back one blue one thousand won note with a wink.

“Thank you,” Bitty says, bowing a little. Jack repeats the thanks and the woman’s face wrinkles up in one of the biggest smiles Jack’s every seen at his poor attempt at Korean. She says something in return and waves goodbye at them.

Bitty has a hold on Jack again and leads the way down the sidewalk to an unoccupied bench. It’s cold on Jack’s ass as he sits down, so he understands why everyone else is walking past it quickly. Bitty takes back the bag of fish and holds it open for Jack to take one, shaking it slightly when Jack’s too slow. Jack bumps his shoulder into Bitty’s and then reaches in with two fingers to grab one by the tail. The fish is exactly as hot as Jack expected from carrying it, steaming in the cold air so he blows on it a little before bringing it to his mouth. He takes a bite of the fish’s nose and isn’t ready for the burst of flavour that comes out.

“Right!?” Bitty says, probably in response to Jack’s expression as he chews. He takes another bite, bigger this time so he gets more of the reddish-black paste that oozes out of the centre of the fish. The paste isn’t overly sweet, in perfect balance with the pastry, and while it is really hot—Jack has to breath through his mouth a couple times to cool his tongue—it’s a welcome heat, warming him up from the inside.

“Wow,” Jack says when he’s finished the whole fish. Bitty’s mouth is full but he tilts the bag for Jack to take another.

Bitty narrates what he thinks the paste might be between each of his bites, and Jack nods like he knows anything, sometimes throwing out random flavours that he’s pretty sure have no place in fish pastries. They make Bitty laugh though so he keeps doing it, jumping from jams to jellies, to specific brands of chocolate. They each finish three fish and look down at the seventh fish.

“Split it?” Bitty asks, already reaching into the bag to grab it out. He rips the fish in half, but is a little too vigorous and the paste from one half squirts out onto Jack’s vest.

“Oh my god,” Bitty says. “Oh my god, I am so sorry.” He’s a flurry of movement trying to decide how to get the paste off with half a fish in each hand and no napkins. He puts the fish back in the bag, puts the bag in his lap, and grabs at the hem of the vest to pull it taunt. He scoops up the paste with a finger and then sticks that finger in his mouth.

Jack’s mouth goes dry.

Bitty’s eyes snap up to Jack’s when he realises what he’s done. His face goes bright red and he immediately takes his finger out of his mouth.

“Holy shit,” he mumbles, turning away from Jack and looking like he’s going to bolt down the street.

Jack isn’t sure exactly what he’s thinking, or if he even is at all when he touches Bitty’s cheek so he turns to him again. The blush is warm under his palm and Bitty’s eyes get impossibly bigger as Jack leans forward and presses his lips to Bitty’s.

Jack feels rather than sees or hears Bitty’s sharp intake of breath, and he drops his hand, about to pull back and try to explain how wrong he read this whole afternoon, “sorry Bitty, this is embarrassing I don’t normally go around kissing random guys,” or something, anything—but Bitty’s lips start to move against his and Jack relaxes into the kiss.

Bitty’s lips are chapped from the cold; Jack’s are too and yet, the kiss is still soft and sets off a wave of butterflies in Jack’s stomach. He tentatively opens his mouth to deepen it, looking for a release for the butterflies but finding more, breath hitching when he tastes the sweet paste on Bitty’s tongue. Bitty shifts and grabs onto Jack’s collar, bringing them even closer. Their noses bump as Jack goes to change angles, and again he feels Bitty’s breath as huffs out a laugh, and it might be the best first kiss that Jack never expected to have here when he woke up this morning. He’s so glad he didn’t go to the sheep cafe.

A passing car honks, maybe from someone cutting it off or maybe because two guys are sitting on a bench kissing. Either way, Jack and Bitty jump apart, breaking the kiss.

Bitty’s face is still red. Jack thinks his might be a similar shade, as he reaches up to rub his mouth. There’s an awkward minute when all Jack can hear is the passing traffic.

“Uh, so maybe it’s nutella?” Jack says. Bitty laughs outright at that, eyes crinkling up.

“I don’t think that’s it,” he says. He slides closer on the bench, tucking himself under Jack’s arm like he belongs there. The sun has started to go down and Jack appreciates the warmth, though he knows that they should probably move soon. He rubs at the puffy fabric, enjoying the swooshy sound his fingers make against it, until Bitty shifts again, this time leaning forward to grab the discarded bag of two halves of one fish that must’ve fallen from his lap when he and Jack were kissing. He stands and offers Jack a hand up. Jack takes it, surprised at the strength behind it when Bitty pulls him up.

“Shit,” Jack says, dropping Bitty’s hand when he realises the buzzing he’s been feeling against his stomach for the past minute is actually his phone vibrating from his pocket. The curse comes out again, a little more panicked when he sees that not only has he left his data on the entire time he’s been with Bitty and he’s somehow missed about 30 texts from the team group chat, but also because it’s Tourex’s WhatsApp ID flashing across his screen. He swipes to ignore it, wanting at least another minute with Bitty to tell how great the afternoon has been and maybe try to get another. The call starts up again almost immediately.

“Fuck,” Jack says. “I completely forgot, I’m meeting my team— euh, friends for dinner.”

“Oh. Uh yeah.” Bitty nods, biting at his lips. They’re still a little kiss swollen and that doesn’t help them at all.

“I’m sorry, I—” Jack says. He doesn’t like the way Bitty wears disappointment, but doesn’t think he can swing blowing off a team dinner, tempting as it may be. He tries to think of how to explain that to Bitty as easily as possible, but Bitty is already speaking as he backs away from Jack.

“No, no it’s fine. I should be getting back too. I’m already gonna be chirped half to death for disappearing all afternoon anyways,” he says quickly. He flashes Jack a small smile, hesitates a beat before waving, the movement jerky and awkward. “It was nice meeting you Jack. Maybe see you around.”

Jack nods, a little at a loss for words at the way Bitty doesn’t even wait for an answer before pulling out his own phone and walking away. His black puffy jacket disappears into the crowd quickly, blending in with the rest of them, even as Jack tries to keep an eye out for his distinct blond hair.

Jack’s phone stops buzzing and starts right back up.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” Jack answers. “I’m my way back.”

« _Was the Palace so interesting that you forgot about your team?_ » Tourex asks him, also forgoing any normal greeting. He hears the crows of the French speakers who must also be with Tourex.

« _Not on purpose,_ » Jack says, finally turning away from the direction Bitty walked off in. Not for the first time that day, his stomach swoops pleasantly. He wonders vaguely what Bitty thinks of hockey.

« _Are you gonna make it back to the hotel before the bus leaves in 10 for dinner or should we just come pick you up?_ »

« _You should probably come pick me up._ » Jack starts off towards the palace.  « _Can you do that?_ »

« _Yes, Chippy and them are still at the sheep cafe, where they actually looked at their phones so their poor old captain didn’t worry_. »

« _Sorry._ »

Jack half jogs across the street, narrowly getting missed by another moped delivery man, and waits at the gate for the team’s big tour bus. He cuts his loses with the international data charge that’ll show up on his phone bill and reads through the messages on his phone. The newest ones are pictures of Ransom and Chip with two fuzzy sheep, a mix of selfies—that are expertly positioned—then some full body shots of Ransom’s shoelaces being eaten by one of them while Skier and Reigner laugh in the background. From the group that went shopping, there’s a picture of their subway adventure, which mostly seems to involve Zed getting left on the platform while the rest of them made it on the train, if Jack understands the messages in between the pictures correctly.

He taps into the message box and sends one of the pictures that Bitty took of him. The replies are almost instant, so he’s not be the only one messing with his data.

 **> >Mac** : _aww, look at our college boi_

 **> > Holly** : _what? zimmy went to college? No one told me :O_

 **> >Gio: ** _gotta pay attention. beauty school dropout_

 **> >Holly:** _does sarcasm not translate in french?_

The chat dissolves in bickering even though Jack’s pretty sure Holly and Gio are sitting next to each other. His suspicions are confirmed when he gets on the bus, flipping off their sarcastic claps about his “historical walk of shame” as he goes to his and Ransom’s row. It’s empty, so the sheep cafe must be next on the pickup list.  

The bus pulls back into traffic, and Jack watches out the window as Gyeongbokgung Palace disappears. It’s only when a moped driver zooms past the bus that Jack realises that all he has to show for the afternoon is a dried stain on his vest and pictures of himself.

Fuck.

 

**February 7, 2018**

_Seoul — PyeongChang, South Korea_

_2 days until Opening Ceremony_

_/\\_ _/\\_ _/\\_

[Image of Cale Lim with a selfie stick, taking a picture of himself and other members of the Canadian men’s hockey team while they’re longing in bus seats]

_Liked by reign-it-in, justincoco, jzimmermann and 861 others_

**cale-chipsRgood** gotta look good before we get to PYEONGCHANG BABY!!! t-minus one hour!!!  #teamcanada #skincarewiththeboys

 

**February 8, 2018**

_Gangneung, South Korea_

_1 day until Opening Ceremony_

_/\\_ _/\\_ _/\\_

[Image of Justin Oluransi posing with the giant Olympic rings on Gyeongpo Beach in Gangneung. He’s wearing Team Canada mittens and spreading his arms wide, smiling just as widely]

_Liked by birkholtz04, larduan, omgcheckplease, and 5,032 others_

**justincoco** can’t believe im here!!! #thanksmomanddad #teamcanada

_/\\_ _/\\_ _/\\_

[Image of Canada’s Men’s hockey team with the plaid moose outside Canada house and wearing varying amounts of Team Canada gear. Casey Reign, Giovanni Sorella, and Zachary Barrie are riding the moose while the rest of the team is smiling at the camera or pulling funny faces]

_Like by shitsngigs, Mitchy-d, therealkvp, and 64 others_

**jzimmermann**   team

 

**February 9, 2018**

_Gangneung, South Korea_

_14 hours until Opening Ceremony_

_/\\_ _/\\_ _/\\_

“Are you awake?”

Jack starts at Ransom’s voice cutting through the early morning in their room, losing count of the ceiling tiles he was counting for the seventh time. It’s sometime around 5am and Jack has been lying in the silence for what feels like hours.

“Yeah.” Jack’s voice cracks around the syllable.

Ransom’s bed creaks as he moves, but the room falls into a heavy silence when he settles into a new position. He goes quiet— maybe asleep again. Jack doesn’t look away from the tiles to check. He’s breathing evenly now, the nerves that woke him up long gone as he counted the tiles on the ceiling, timing his breath to Ransom’s.

There’s a pair of red Canada mittens somewhere in the room that belong to Jack, one of over two hundred matching pairs that’ll be worn by the athletes while the walk out behind the maple leaf tonight. Jack’s breath almost hitches on the thought but he keeps breathing—+ _in-onetwothree, hold-fourfivesix out-seveneightnine_ —long and deep.

Coming into the Athlete’s Village, Jack felt more settled that he ever thought he could at an international tournament. The friendliness of the volunteers—-both the Canadians who flew over special for the Olympics and Koreans who are happy to show off their country—probably helped a lot with that. They’re happy to be here, and excited to see the Canadian athletes, even if they’re lacking NHL players, and that in turn makes it easier for Jack to be happy to be here, makes it easier to ignore the dark part in his head that tells him he shouldn’t be. The volunteers were all smiles when the team visited Canada House briefly and got more Canada branded t-shirts, sweaters, and pants than there are days in the Olympics, meant to make sure the athletes will look like part of Team Canada even when they’re not competing in their jerseys.

Jack likes that. He likes being a part of a team, that’s obvious; he’s spent most of his life on teams. He’s never been part of one this big though, that’s really different. The maple leaf on his chest is lighter with more people to carry it with him; more people to get excited with when he pulled on the big red jacket that they’re wearing for the Opening Ceremony; more people to celebrate with when they watched the mixed double curling team playing the first game; more people to be excited to be here with.

“Did you fall back asleep?” Ransom asks, scaring Jack again.

“No.” Jack lets out a breath. “You?”

“No.”

They breath in tandem for a minute.

“I gotta move, wanna go for a walk?” Ransom asks. Jack finally looks away from the ceiling. Ransom’s up on one elbow, a pillow crease cutting through his cheek. His eyes are big and shiny, reflecting what little light there is in the room this early in the morning. He worries at his bottom lip, teeth digging into the skin so it goes white.

“Alright,” Jack says, kicking off his blankets. Ransom lets go of his lip and offers Jack a grateful smile as he does the same.

They get dressed in the dark, staying quiet as they stumble around looking for clothes. Jack’s pretty sure the hoodie he pulls on is actually Ransom’s, and the sweats Ransom struggled into are just a touch too short for him. Jack hands Ransom one of the scarfs hanging up and wraps the other around his neck. Jackets are next because Jack isn’t making that mistake anymore, especially not this close to the ocean.

The quiet of the morning is broken when they leave their room, sounds of those whose competitions start early getting ready for early morning training coming through the closed doors. Ransom presses the down button for the elevator and they don’t have to wait long for the doors to open. It’s not an empty elevator though; three other guys with matching Canada toques to the ones Ransom and Jack are wearing look just as shocked at Ransom and Jack that there are people up and out of their rooms.

They makes room for Ransom and Jack, shuffling in close together so they can step in before the doors close.

“Sorry, thank you,” Ransom says and he get in. The doors close and the elevator keeps going down.

“You guys the hockey boys?” One of the group asks. He’s shorter than the other two, younger looking too with a smattering of acne across his forehead and brown curls struggling against the toque. Jack nods, watching the floor numbers go down.

“Yeah, man,” Ransom says. He leans against the wall and looks at the group, squinting slightly. “You guys are… snowboarders?”

“Ch’yeah bro, good eyes!” the same guy reaches out for a fist bump that Ransom happily returns. “Where’re you off too?”

Ransom catches Jack’s eye. “Uh, just going for a walk, woke up too early and can’t get back to sleep,” Ransom says, looking back at the snowboarders. They’re nodding like they understand. They probably actually do.

“We’re going to the beach to try to catch the sunrise—you guys wanna come with?” the tallest one of the group says. He towers over Jack and Ransom both, so Jack actually has to tilt his head to see his kind smile.

“Sure?” Jack says, looking over at Ransom who’s nodding. “Sure.”

Their elevator group gets bigger as a pair of figure skaters squeeze in with them on the seventh floor. The beach invitation gets extended to them; they’re going to get breakfast before they go to training though so they part ways on the ground floor after giving walking directions to the beach. Apparently Mark and Steph were following Nugget to the beach—the nickname makes Jack think that snowboarders are just as weird about nicknames as hockey players are—who was just going to walk east and hope for the best.

« _He doesn’t even know which way is west ,_ » Steph says, grabbing at Nugget’s hood when he starts going the wrong way.

“Bro, uncool,” Nugget says, but he happily walks alongside Steph the rest of the way to the beach.

The sky is just starting to turn by the time they sit down on the low stone wall that separates the beach from the road. It’s pretty quiet out here, the sound of the waves crashing on the beach drowning out any sounds of the city waking up behind them. The stone is cold on Jack’s ass—a memory that he pushes to the side—and he pulls down the hem of his jacket to chase the cold and the thought the last time he was on a cold bench away, copying what he sees Mark do. Nugget says something in an undertone to Steph that earns him an elbow to the gut, but they all get quiet when the sky starts changing colour in earnest.

“Wow,” Ransom says when the sun’s fully up, squinting against its glare.  

“Ch’yeah.”

“Yeah,” Jack agrees. He knocks his shoulder into Ransom’s. Ransom turns away from the sun to look at Jack. He’s smiling, but it’s a little hesitant, a little small, like he’s not sure if he should be smiling yet. Jack realizes that maybe he hadn’t been sleeping as soundly as Jack thought when he timed his breaths to Ransom’s earlier.

“Guess we’re really here,” Jack says softly. Ransom lets out a shaky breath, and nods.

“Let’s fucking do this.”

 

**February 9-11, 2018**

_PyeongChang County, South Korea_

_Days 1-3_

_/\\_ _/\\_ _/\\_

For as intense as the build up to the first days of the Olympics was, Jack finds himself waiting around a lot. The men’s hockey tournament doesn't actually start until the middle of next week, five days after the Opening Ceremony, and there’s only so much ice time available for them with the women’s tournament starting on the second day and there being 20 teams to schedule around. He trains in one of the many gyms in the Athlete's Village when the coaches suggest it, usually with Tourex or Ellis who both keep keep similar gym routines to his, but they don’t ever push themselves too hard. This is a long tournament—a marathon not a sprint and no one wants to be tired before they’ve even ran the first mile.

His mom and dad show up the evening after the Opening Ceremony, delayed in Vancouver by shitty weather, and with a stow-away whose suspicious radio silence after the ceremony makes sense if he was also in the air while it happened.

“Jack Zimmermann, you beautiful son of a bitch!!!” Shitty exclaims elbowing past Jack dad. “No offense Mama Zed.”

“None taken,” Jack’s mom say dryly, grinning at Jack from where he’s frozen in Shitty’s mustached embrace.

“Shitty, what the fuck!?” Jack asks. “You’re supposed to—L3?” He holds on a little tighter though; he’ll never tell Shitty, but as great as the pre-tournament bonding with the team has been, no one’s cuddles have come close to replacing Shitty’s.

“Jack-a-bell, you do our friendship a disservice if you thought I’d be content watching you kick ass from home.” Shitty pulls back and squeezes Jack’s shoulders, digging right into the meat of the muscle.

“But, L3?” Jack repeats.

“I loaded up my summer and fall semesters,” Shitty shrugs.

“Shits…” A swell of emotion catches in Jack’s throat; that means that Shitty has been so sure of Jack playing in the Olympics that he planned out his schedule almost a six months before Jack was even invited to the camps. Shitty’s expression is almost shy as Jack stares at him, overwhelmed with gratitude for his friendship. “Thanks buddy.”

“Course, I'm always here for you. ‘Sides I want one of those special Olympic condoms.”

“Oh my god,” Jack laughs, shoving at Shitty. He laughs too, loud and right from his belly.

“I’m pretty sure you don’t need all of the 38 they gave you.”

“Shitty!” Jack groans, reaching to get a hand over Shitty’s mouth. Shitty struggles against him and ends up on top of him as they laugh-wrestled until Jack remembers his parents are still there. They wave off his attempts to unravel himself from Shitty’s attempted choker-hold.

“Wickenheiser is around here somewhere and I have to go settle a bet,” his dad says.

Mama rolls her eyes, but tucks herself under his arms. “You lost dear. We’ll catch up with you later Jack; go have fun!” she says over Papa’s splutters.

They eventually do catch up, though it happens a lot at other events that Jack drags them out to watch, between his own team commitments. His athletes badge and their friends-and-family badges get them into most events, especially the outdoor ones where the crowds are thin due to weather, so for what might be the first time in his life, Jack watches more than Olympic hockey, and gets invested in cheering with his country, emotion swelling every time ‘Canada’ and ‘medal’ are mentioned in the same sentence.

(It’s a coin flip whether or not it’s good emotion.)

It’s almost an accident when Jack finds himself at one of the hockey arenas when the men’s team isn’t practicing nor is the women’s team kicking ass in their group. It’s an open practice for the American men’s team and maybe Jack shouldn’t be here, but he got swallowed up by a crowd on their way over from the Olympic Village and hadn’t done much to stop it when he realized where they were going, having no plans because his parents were invited to sit in on a meeting about 2026 Olympic bids, and Shitty found a giant screen to watch the nordic combine on and refused to move because there was also German beer (and Germans impressed by his moustache).

Jack’s obviously decked out in Canadian gear and sticks out against the red, white, and blue but besides a few chirps from a guy wearing a truly obnoxious hat covered in American flags, Jack’s left alone so he settles on a seat, curious about team. The Americans were in the same boat as the rest of the teams—no NHL players to pick from—so Jack hadn't paid much attention when their roster was released, recognizing exactly zero names in the lead up and trying not to have a daily panic attack while he waited for the Canadians to release their roster.

Jack’s pretty sure he remembers Mitchy saying they pulled a lot from the NCAA and other professional leagues too, but there’s a guy on the ice that Jack thinks is fast enough to give most players in all leagues a run for their money. Jack’s eyes keep drifting back to him, to the number 15 on the back of his practice jersey, even though the goalie they have in the far net during the scrimmage is good enough that Jack should definitely be watching him for weaknesses.

Number 15 has soft hands too, is mesmerizing with a stick as he dangles around a d-man to shoot on net. He whiffs on the shoot, but laughs bright and happy when the d-man knocks into his shoulder and chirps him. Something pulls at Jack’s stomach but he can’t parse through the familiarity before someone comes and knocks into his shoulder.

“You checking out the competition?”

Jack blinks at Ransom settling into the seat next to him. “Uh… aren’t you… too?”

“Well yeah, but like, half the team are my Samwell boys.” He shakes his head at Jack. “I swear I told you.”

“Er, maybe?” Jack’s distracted by Number 15 again, pulling a tight turn around the goal that really shouldn't be making Jack feel a certain way. He’s watched good hockey before, even played with skaters who should've been at higher levels than the Canadian University league. There’s something about this guy though.

“Yeah, Chowder, he’s in net and is technically with the Sharks, but they kept him in the AHL for the season, probably so America could have a shot at a medal. He’s a damn brick wall. And Nursey—he’s that righty d-man—his d-partner is the one who signed and is up playing with Philly right now, and there are teams looking at Nursey too.” Ransom points at number 28.

“Samwell makes good players, eh?”

Ransom snorts. “Dude, it’s ridiculous sometimes. Whiskey was supposed to be here too, but he fucked his knee in pre-season and physio has been mad slow.”

Number 15 easily picks the pocket of the winger coming out of the other team’s zone and, with seemingly no effort and gets around the defenders, going bar down on goalie to score. Ransom jumps up.

“YEAH BITTY, THAT A BOY!!!” he shouts out, cupping his hands over his mouth for maximum volume. He sits back down, smiling proudly. “That’s Bitty and he’s fucking crazy good. Dude couldn't take a check his first year the team, had been playing no contact in high school but worked his ass off with me and Holster to get through it to keep his scholarship,” Ransom continues like Number 15 hadn’t looked over at Ransom’s shout and froze when he made eye contact with Jack.

Apparently Jack wasn’t as done with hockey players as he thought when he kissed Number 15 on the frozen bench in Seoul and tasted the sweet paste on Bitty’s tongue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Gyeongbokgung Palace & Changing of the Guard Ceremony](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PJDFP9uhkiQ)
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> [Sheep Cafe](https://www.tripadvisor.com/Restaurant_Review-g294197-d7376255-Reviews-Thanks_Nature_Cafe-Seoul.htm) in Seoul (amazing pomegranate lemonade if you ever go)
> 
> [Bungeo-ppang](https://www.10mag.com/10-korean-winter-street-foods-to-bear-the-cold-for/), fish pastries (number one on the list, and number one in my heart)


	3. Show the World How [We're A Team]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The whistle blows and the moment is broken. Bitty looks away first, turning to skate back to the bench. Jack stares at the numbers on the back of his sweater until the top of the 1 and 5 get covered up by a teammate’s arm around his shoulder as the whole team crowds around the coach’s whiteboard. Jack sticks his hands under his thighs, remembering how well Bitty fit under his arm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uhhhhh,,,,,did the olympics end? not yet, right? 
> 
> a giant fucking shoutout goes to @[apprenticedmagician](http://apprenticedmagician.tumblr.com/) and @[leahlisabeth](http://leahlisabeth.tumblr.com/) who read what i had and with their comments kicked my ass so i got the last 3.5k out in two-ish days.
> 
> i followed the real life tournament bracket (and game times) for the most part. the scores from the preliminary round are the actual scores (who scored them and when changes, obviously). canada's quarter final score is accurate, but after that it's balls to the wall, i did what i wanted
> 
> disclaimer: i am canadian and still hurting over the women's gold medal game. this may or may not be reflected in the winning of [retracted] medals. sorry im not even a little bit sorry ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> title is from [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4YTeP3QpMho) commercial that i watched way too many times during the actual olympics. thanks for that cbc
> 
> any and all mistakes here are completely mine, and the omgcp universe of course belongs to ngozi

Part Three: Show the World How [We're A Team]

**February 11, 2018**

_Gangneung, South Korea_

_Day 3_

_/\\_ _/\\_ _/\\_

The whistle blows and the moment is broken. Bitty looks away first, turning to skate back to the bench. Jack stares at the numbers on the back of his sweater until the top of the 1 and 5 get covered up by a teammate’s arm around his shoulder as the whole team crowds around the coach’s whiteboard. Jack sticks his hands under his thighs, remembering how well Bitty fit under his arm.

It’s only been six days since Jack watched Bitty disappear into the crowd; six days of buses and pictures and team bonding and the Opening Ceremony; six days of Canada, of meeting other athletes and becoming part of a bigger team, and yet what if’s kept finding a home in Jack’s head when he stayed too still. Asking Bitty for coffee had been an accident but what if he had been fast enough to get Bitty’s number? What if he had skipped team dinner? What if he went in for another kiss, another coffee, what if, what if, what if?

Well. He might’ve learned that Bitty was on the American hockey team for one.

The huddles breaks up and Bitty hops the boards, returning the elbow that a teammate jostles him with as he takes off his helmet to run his hand through his hair. He says something with a grin and puts his helmet back on, leaving the strap dangling while he slides down the bench. He looks up and catches Jack watching him. Jack half lifts a hand to wave, but Bitty’s expression is blank as his eyes slide over Jack to wave at Ransom.  

Jack’s cheeks heat up and he sits back in his seat. He feels rather than sees Ransom wave back, both hands flailing all over the place before he settles down and pulls out his phone. Jack feels his phone pressing into his thigh in his pocket as he leans forward on his elbows to watch Bitty back on the ice. He moves around the other guys like no one Jack’s ever seen before, cutting patterns through the ice, and sending the pucks through lanes that Jack never would’ve thought to try. Jack imagines where he could fit on Bitty’s line, where he could go on the ice to open himself up to the seemingly impossibly assists that Bitty keeps feeding his centres.

Jack claps along with the rest of the crowd every time the white jerseys score, never as loud as Ransom was the first time Bitty scored though, but hard enough that his palms are left tingling a little bit. Bitty doesn’t look over in their direction again, not when he’s waiting for the face-off, not when he’s sitting on the bench catching his breath, not when the scrimmage is called and the team gathers as one around the centre circle. Jack rubs his fingers along the seam of his pants, watching as some of the Americans line up to practice shootouts on the goalies. Half the team is already off the ice. Jack squints but doesn’t see a number 15 anywhere. He clears his throat past his disappointment.

“So, uh… Bitty?” Jack asks, leaning back in his seat. Ransom looks up from his phone, completely seeing through whatever subtley Jack was going for.

Jack still doesn’t understand the specifics of Ransom and Holster’s relationship—he gives the room a wide berth when Ransom mentions calling Holster though, for his own peace of mind more than anything— but he’s pretty sure Ransom won’t have a problem with Jack kissing guys. He’s just not sure what Ransom’s reaction might be to Jack kissing Bitty, so he flounders for something to say that doesn’t completely give himself— or Bitty— away.

“He skates well,” Jack finishes lamely after a long minute.

“Uh huh,” Ransom says, grin spreading slowly across his face. Jack is glad that his toque covers his burning ears as Ransom turns so his knees knock into Jack’s. “He used to figure skate. Captained the team to the Frozen Four last year and won it as the first openly gay NCAA captain.” Ransom pauses and considers Jack, whose brain whirls through the information, bouncing between good enough to be captain and openly gay and getting stuck somewhere in between. Ransom must see whatever he’s looking for in Jack’s face because he continues, “Makes the best pies you’ve ever tried too.”

That Jack knows.

“Yeah.” Jack agrees, blanching when Ransom raises an eyebrow. He didn’t mean to say that out loud. Before Ransom can say anything though, there’s a tap on the glass in front of them and they both look to see one of the American coaches on the other side, arms crossed.

“Coach Hall! What’s up!?” Ransom stands and pockets his phone. The raised platform of the stands put him at the perfect height to lean over the glass.

“Oluransi. Good to see you.” The coach nods, reaching up to touch a fist to the one Ransom gets on his tiptoes to offer.

“Get outta here Rans!” Number 28 comes to a stop beside the coach, sending snow up his pants. “Oops, sorry Coach.”

The coach shakes his head, but doesn’t seem put out by the snow. “Good luck Oluransi. We’ll be seeing you, I’m sure. Nurse, thank you for picking up the pucks.” He skates away to where the rest of the team is filing off the ice, leaving the pucks scattered on the ice. Jack snorts as Nurse makes a face, which has him craning around Ransom and looking at Jack. Well, looking at the maple leaf on Jack’s chest anyways.

“Oh shit, new best friend Ransom? Holtzy’s gonna be heartbroken.” He reaches Jack’s face and his eyes widen comically. “Fuck, maybe not if it’s Jack Zimmermann.”

He says Jack’s name like it’s usually said in hockey circles; emphasis on ‘-mann’ and his first name almost completely skirted over. Nurse stares at him. Jack raises a hand to wave before pulling out his phone, and looking down at the blank screen as his face heats up under Nurse’s scrutiny.

“Be cool man,” Ransom says. Jack looks up to see him get up on his toes to lean even further over the glass to knock his knuckles on the top of Nurse’s helmet. “Holtzy says hi.”

“I know, we’re in the same group chat. You saw Dex said they were thinking about taking the scratches and coming over for a bit?”

Ransom’s shoulders tighten minutely under his sweater, as he makes the disapproving clicking sound with his tongue that Jack’s heard every morning they’ve gotten breakfast together and Jack gets the bran cereal. “They’re gonna get fined and ruin their fucking seasons.” His voice is soft though, the tone that Jack’s come to associate when Ransom calls Holster.

“Probably. But hey, Lardo’s here finally! We’re gonna go look for dinner with her if you wanna ditch that ugly gear and come with?”

“Asshole, that’s why I’m at your damn practice.” Ransom bangs on the glass in front of Nurse’s face, laughing. Nurse sticks his tongue out as he skates backwards to start collecting pucks.

Ransom jumps down from the glass and sits back beside Jack. Jack looks at his phone, tapping the middle button so he’s staring at the lock screen.

“You’re coming, eh?” Ransom says.

“What?” Jack fucks up his password.

“Come to dinner? Meet the boys and Lardo? They’re great when they’re not being stupidly American.”

Jack blinks. “I wouldn’t want to uh, mess with your team time,” he says when Ransom keeps looking at him.

“Bro, you’re team.” Ransom rolls his eyes. “C’mon, it’ll be fun.” He digs an elbow into Jack’s side, laughing when Jack shoves him away.

“Alright, alright,” Jack says.

Ransom’s all dimples as he herds Jack out of the stands and onto the concrete that surrounds the rink. The blue lanyards around their necks get them through security, though their Canada gear gets them more than a couple of weird looks that Ransom ignores as he looks down on his phone, typing one handed when he’s not smiling at security to get them past. He walks past the open locker room that’s blasting an upbeat pop song and takes another turn down another hallway. Jack steps on the back of Ransom’s shoe when he stops.

“Oh shit, sorry—” Jack’s apology is cut off as Ransom launches himself at a dark haired woman leaning against the wall.

“LARDS!” Ransom cries, wrapping his arms around her and lifting to bury his face in her neck. She squeezes Ransom back, saying something too low that makes Ransom laugh loudly. She loses about a foot and a half when Ransom puts her back on the ground, but the way she stares at Jack doesn’t become any less intimidating.

“Jack, this is Lardo,” Ransom says happily, leaning on her shoulder. She shrugs it off. “She managed our team for three glorious years and is the reigning Haus ‘pong champ last I checked.”

“‘Sup?” Lardo says. Jack bumps her fist.

“Lardo, Jack. I dunno how good he is at ‘pong,” Ransom continues, frowning a little at Jack.

Jack shrugs, and listens to Ransom and Lardo talk about her flight over, and is only mildly jealous that she took the bullet train over from Incheon instead of a bus. He wants to ask her about it, but there’s no break in the conversation—now having moved onto figuring out how to set up a ‘pong tournament in Athlete’s Village—until someone snatches Ransom’s toque off his head.

“What’d I say about this ugly fucking thing!”

“Lardooooooooo!!!” A blur of red, white, and two shades of blue jumps on Lardo’s back. Jack’s impressed that she doesn’t stumble under the weight when he sees how lanky the guy is and how fast he was going. The toes of his shoes almost scrape the ground.

“Oh my god, y’all. One time I’d like to go somewhere without someone jumping on someone.”

Jack looks away form the wrestling match that Ransom’s losing as he tries to get his hat back from Nurse to see Bitty, dressed head to toe in Team USA gear, hair damp and curling from a post practice shower. He’s not wearing the puffy black jacket from before, though his cheeks are flushed— reminiscent of the first time they met—and Jack has to swallow hard. His memory really didn’t do Bitty justice.

“Um,” Jack says, forgetting every single thing he thought about saying to Bitty while he followed Ransom down here. Bitty offers him a small smile that’s nowhere near as bright as the ones he freely gave Jack last week. It’s replaced by a bigger one, all teeth and dimples when Bitty squeezes in to give Lardo a hug and join the conversation between her and the guy still on her back.

Jack stares at Bitty’s profile, wondering for the first time, if maybe he’s wrong and this isn’t the Bitty that he met earlier. His heart starts to go a little faster—disappointment and potential embarrassment starting to mix together— but no, there’s the freckles on Bitty’s cheeks that Jack remembers touching with his thumbs as he angled their mouths to fit together better. Bitty shifts and Jack catches his eye again and there’s definitely recognition there, so Jack doesn’t know why neither of them have actually said anything. He’s just decided to throw caution to the wind and say some variation of “hello,” when he takes an elbow to the chest and then goes down hard on his back when the rest of a body follows the elbow.

“Oooph,” he says.

Nurse’s face is right in Jack’s face. “Oh shit bro, my b,” Nurse says.

“Yeah.” Jack groans when Nurse shifts and comes way too close to kneeing Jack in the balls.

“Sorry, sorry.” Nurse says as someone hauls him off Jack. Jack takes a deep breath now that he doesn’t have a d-man on him and can. He takes stock of his body. He’s just winded from the fall, and more than a little embarrassed at the awkward silence that’s descended on the group. He wonders if they’ll go away if he just lies there.

“Uh, so this is Jack,” Ransom says, after clearing his throat to break the silence. Jack takes his offered hand and lets himself be pulled to his feet. “And Canada would probably appreciate it if you didn’t hurt him before the tournament starts, Derek.” Ransom isn’t gentle as he brushes off Jack’s back, starting at his shoulders and making his way down. Jack makes eye contact with Bitty as Ransom gets his ass. Jack looks away first.

Ransom finishes and straightens up, bumping his shoulder into Jack’s as he introduces the group to Jack. Nurse tells him to call him Nursey, and Chowder’s happy to chirp Nursey for the fall from his spot on Lardo’s back, gently kicking his legs back and forth.

“And this,” Ransom says, reaching out to pull Bitty under his arm. “This is Bitty.”

There’s an eyebrow wiggle from over Bitty’s head that should probably embarrass Jack, but he’s too busy trying to read the expression in Bitty’s eyes.  

“I know,” Jack says when the silence has stretched thin. Bitty’s eyebrows go up and Ransom’s mouth drops open.

“You know?” he asks.

“Euh, yeah? We uh… met last week?” Jack isn’t sure why it comes out as a question, but Bitty nods like he’s answering it anyways.

“Bitty! Why didn’t you tell us you met Jack Zimmermann!?” Chowder asks.

“I um, I didn’t think it was um, relevant?” Bitty scratches the back of his neck and Jack thinks he does a very good job of not looking at the sliver of skin when his t-shirt rides up.

“Why because—” Nursey’s sentence ends when Lardo swings Chowder’s foot into his thigh.

“Oops,” Lardo says.

“Because you ditched us to film something for your vlog is what I was gonna say,” Nursey says, rubbing his leg and glaring.

“Wait, so you guys have met?” Ransom asks, still looking between Jack and Bitty. Jack wonders if his face is as red as Bitty’s is turning. He feels very warm all over.

“Uh… Bitty took that picture of me and the gate,” Jack says.  

“Huh,” Ransom says. He stares at Jack for another second before clapping his hands together. “So dinner?”

Jack falls into step with Bitty at the back of the group as they follow Lardo out of the practice centre and down the street, her phone open to a maps app. Bitty’s hands are shoved deep in his pockets and his shoulders have been up near his ears since they got outside. The sun is still bright and keeping the air warm, but as soon as it disappears behind a building, it’s going to be cold. Winter Olympics and all. Bitty watches the rest of the group argue about Chowder and Ransom’s choice of hats. From what Jack can see of Bitty’s face—where it’s not tucked into his collar—he looks fond in a way that reminds Jack of how he felt when Mitchy and Davidson argued about their readings.  

“Leave Chowder alone y’all! At least he’s not wearing that awful hoodie,” Bitty calls suddenly, apparently following the conversation while Jack has been trying not to think about the air in the space between him and Bitty.

Chowder squawks and that starts another round of chirping, inside jokes being thrown around faster than Jack can keep up with. He sticks his hands in his pockets and chances letting his elbow bump into Bitty’s. Bitty startles at the touch.

“Hoodie?” Jack asks.

Bitty tuts without looking at Jack. “His frog year, it was rare to see Chowder in anything other than this one Sharks hoodie, so literally everyone on campus knew him as ‘Sharkboy’.” He shakes his head, smiling now. “He loved it, even when he grew four inches over break and kept wearing the damn thing as a crop top before games. Good luck or something.”

“Goalies are weird,” Jack says. He’s caught Holly counting out the number of steps he took from the locker room to the ice on game days, and going back to start over if the number was even.

Bitty hums in agreement and shoves his hands deeper into his pockets, shivering slightly. They walk quietly for another half block. Then,

“Team USA?” Jack asks, wincing when it comes out more accusatory than he meant. Bitty’s shoulders get even closer to his ears, more defensive.

“Yes.” Bitty’s tone is clipped.

“Um, congrats,” Jack says.

Bitty makes a noise in the back of his throat, slowing his steps as he turns to look up at Jack. Jack’s entire face feels itchy under Bitty’s scrutinising gaze, but he slows down too, matching Bitty step for step. He grabs Bitty’s shoulders when he comes close to knocking into one of the stalls lining the street and Bitty lets himself be pulled into Jack’s space, still staring. He steps around the stall, takes another couple steps, and then stops in the middle of the sidewalk.

“You didn’t know?” Bitty asks. His brow is furrowed.

“Euh… sorry?” Jack’s completely lost the string of the conversation as he moves out of the way of a group of Swedish tourists, pins and flags on their hats. Bitty takes a step back, pressing his back against the window of the cafe they’ve stopped in front of. Jack follows.

“You didn’t know I was on the team?” Bitty asks again.

“Should I have?” Jack replies honestly. He’d looked at the other teams rosters, but the names hadn’t meant anything, names of known players that Jack had never watched nor played against. When the coaches started to have video sessions for the Canadian team, he’d been looking at last names, jersey numbers, and stats, not faces. There hadn’t been a ‘Bitty’ on the backs of any jerseys or score sheets.

Bitty lets out a breath. “I knew you were on the Canadian team,” he says.

Jack’s stomach clenches, souring like the yogurt drink he’d had earlier was bad. He feels stupid now, thinking that Bitty hadn’t come up to him because of his last name.

“Oh.” He looks away from Bitty, at the table that’s pressed right against the window from the inside. There’s a couple sitting there, sharing a slice of cake. Jack wonders if their feet are pressed together under the table.

“Sorry.” Bitty’s voice is soft, his accent rolling over the vowels. “I didn’t— I wouldn't tell anyone what happened.”

“What happened?”

“That we… y’know. Kissed.”

“Why?” Jack keeps losing the thread of the conversation.

“Why what?”

“Why wouldn’t you tell anyone? I’m not… I’m out,” Jack says slowly. From the way Bitty’s cheeks flush an even deeper red, Jack thinks he might’ve finally caught on.

“You’re out?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“Oh.” Bitty chews on his bottom lip. “I just—you didn’t give your last name, and—and you said you were meeting friends, I thought you were hiding or… or—” He takes a deep breath.

“You gave me a nickname,” Jack cuts in.

“I thought we were being subtle!” Bitty says on the exhale. He blinks; seemingly just as shocked as Jack is at how loud his voice came out. “Plausible deniability,” he says quieter.

“I thought you were cute,” Jack says after a long beat. The colour in Bitty’s cheeks makes his freckles stand out even more.

Bitty thumps his head back against the window. “Oh my god.” His voice is muffled behind the hands he brings up to cover his face.

The couple in the window is still staring at them from Bitty’s previous outburst. They gather their mugs and plate on their tray and move tables when they see Jack looking back at them.

“YO BITS, JACK? YOU COMING?” Ransom’s voice comes from across the street. He’s standing in front of a BBQ restaurant, hands cupped around his mouth. Jack hopes he hadn’t been shouting at them long.

“Yeah,” Jack replies.

“WHAT?”

Jack rolls his eyes and waves a hand at Ransom, hoping that gets his point across.

“OKAY, TAKE YOUR TIME! WE’VE GOT A TABLE HERE!”

Jack glares, but doesn’t think that Ransom notices as he goes into the restaurant with a thumbs up.

“We should go. That boy has an idea in his head and will never shut up now.” Bitty pushes himself off the wall, his hair tickling Jack’s nose. Jack didn’t realise how he’d been boxing Bitty in against the wall, and wonders what that must’ve looked like to someone passing by. Wonders what it actually was.

He steps back, catching his heel on the uneven sidewalk, but stays upright with Bitty’s hands on his elbows, steadying him. He pats Jack’s arms once after he lets go, and Jack feels the heat of the touch all way down to his core, even when they walk towards the crosswalk to cross the street. The traffic’s not as heavy here in Gangneung as it was in Seoul, but the cars still stop much too close to pedestrians in Jack’s opinion.

They wait for the light to change next to a red tent with steam rolling out from under the unzipped door on the corner. It’s a man behind the counter this time, putting up fish pastries and whistling as he turns the fish mold over the heat. Bitty clears his throat, but doesn’t say anything, staring at the light intently.

“It’s red bean paste,” Jack says.

“What?”

“Inside the fish, it’s red bean paste.” At Bitty’s wide eyed look, Jack continues. “I um, googled it.”

The light turns; it takes Jack and Bitty a moment to follow the crowd across the street.

There’s no shortage of chirps when they finally get into the restaurant, easily finding Ransom, Lardo, Chowder, and Nursey amongst the crowd. There’s already strips of meat cooking on the grill in the centre of the table. Bitty sits heavily next to Lardo, rolling his eyes even as he blushes at Ransom’s knowing look that hits Jack too. Bitty gestures at the seat next to him when Jack hesitates and doesn’t move away when Jack’s thigh ends up pressed against his. If Jack loses a couple of pieces of meat down the grill, well he’s still getting used to the thin metal chopsticks.

While they’re waiting for a new plate of meat to cook, Chowder adds Jack into a new WhatsApp group chat and Jack makes it all the way until they get cups of instant coffee to add Bitty’s number in as a separate contact. He’s still looking down at his phone, about to add the rest of the group in, when Ransom kicks him in the shin.

“Practice,” Ransom says, leaning around the table to give everyone fist bumps.

“Oh shit.” Jack totally forgot about the late practice, distracted not only by food and the company, but also by the weird schedule that the teams are running on. Late games and practices aren’t uncommon in order to accommodate the 20 teams in both tournaments.

“I’ll see you later,” Jack says, shrugging back into the jacket he took off when the heat of the grill and warmth of Bitty’s body left him too warm under all his layers. He said it to the table, but it’s Bitty’s smile and little wave that Jack’s thinking about on taxi ride back to the practice facility.

“So… Bitty?” Ransom asks.

Jack leans forward to answer the taxi driver’s questions about where they’re from, but he sees Ransom’s grin anyways.

 

**February 12, 2018**

_Gangneung, South Korea_

_Day 4_

_/\\_ _/\\_ _/\\_

[Video of Cale Lim and Oliver Bourque in their Team Canada practice jersey on the ice, Bourque’s arms around Lim’s shoulders. They both look at the camera, smiling slightly before Lim starts to speak, gesturing his gloved hands. When he finishes, Bourque starts. They shout together at the end, Bourque shaking Lim under his arm. The video cuts off with them laughing.

Video transcript:

LIM: Hey Canada, it’s game day for our women here in South Korea, so have a nap now and make sure to set your alarms bright and early to cheer them on against Finland.

BOURQUE: Bonjour Canada, c'est le jour du match. Faites une sieste et mettez vos alarmes très tôt pour regarder nos femmes affronter la Finlande.

BOTH: Go Canada go!]

_9,206 views_

**hockeycanada**  Game day! Join our men in watching our women take on Finland. 4:10pm local time, 2:10am EST.

 

**February 14, 2018**

_Gangneung, South Korea_

_Day 6_

_/\\_ _/\\_ _/\\_

[Image of fresh ice at the Kwangdong hockey centre, the PyeongChang logo centred in the middle of the frame. Swipe to the next image of Eric Bittle’s blue Team USA jersey hanging up in his stall, equipment laid out artfully on the bench below. Swipe to the final image of the 2018 U.S. Olympic Men’s team, sitting on the benches for the official team photo and pulling funny faces.]

_Liked by jzimmermann, chowderchow, therealkvp, and 9,832 others_

**omgcheckplease**  excited to spend Valentine’s day on the ice with these boys. U-S-A U-S-A U-S-A #teamusa #PyeongChang #2018olympics

 

**February 15, 2018**

_Gangneung, South Korea_

_Day 7_

_/\\_ _/\\_ _/\\_

[Image of Jack Zimmermann in a red Team Canada track jacket hunched over a bowl of cereal, looking warily at the camera.]

_Liked by omgcheckplease, d.nursey, dex-poindexter, and 4,138 others_

**justincoco**   game day ready

 

Jack scores Canada’s first goal of the men’s Olympic tournament. He assists on Cale’s; and is in the on-ice celebration for Parker’s. Canada is up by 3 when Switzerland scores, but they answer back with two quick goals in the third and Switzerland never bounces back.

The locker room is loud after the game, rightly so if this is what skating on Olympic ice is going to be like. Cale’s humming in the shower turns into a duet with Ransom, that soon has the rest of the room shouting out requests as they shower or get dressed. No one seems to mind that neither can carry a tune.

Jack’s phone buzzes, stops, and then buzzes again, creeping closer to the edge of the bench. Jack’s in the middle of towelling off his hair so he nudges the phone back towards the wall with his knee. He catches sight of the name on the screen though and, draping the towel over his shoulder, he picks it up. He makes a face as water drips onto the screen, and scrubs harder at his hair before wiping his phone off on his underwear—the only clothes he’s managed to put on.

“No sexting in the locker room!” Holly calls from his stall. Jack flips him off and tosses his hair towel in Holly’s direction’s, not really aiming; Holly’s riding the high of getting game MVP for stopping 27 of 28 shots and Jack doesn’t really want to dampen it. Holly catches the towel and sends it back to Jack, actually hitting him in the face, but leaving Jack alone after that. He unlocks his phone.

 **> >Bitty: ** _good game!_

 **> >Bitty:** _:)_

Jack’s thumbs hover over the keyboard. He looks at the smiley for a long time, before tapping out _haha thanks_ , and pressing send. The grey check marks turn blue almost immediately, but Bitty doesn’t send anything back. Jack chews on his lip until the screen goes dark and then finishes getting dressed to the tune of “Dancing Queen” and Mac shouting, “ABBA isn’t from Switzerland you fucking heathens!”

While Jack waits the bus back to the Athlete’s apartment to fill up, he pulls out his phone again, still open to the thread with Bitty. It’s not very long, but Bitty had messaged him privately outside of the group chat the morning after the dinner, sending a picture of a fish pastry and _still delicious :)_. Jack completely lost track of the breakfast conversation with his parents while he stared at the picture. His dad didn’t need much convincing to stop at a red tent on their way back from the restaurant—having decided that he wanted to eat as much Korean food as possible—so it was easy to take a picture of the two bags of hot fish pastries and send it back to Bitty.

Bitty responded and then Jack did and then Bitty again, and again and again and they went back and forth until yesterday when Jack realized that the Americans were playing their first game of the tournament. He felt weird sending a message before the game, wasn’t sure of the protocol of having friends on other hockey teams.

(He’d gone completely radio silent on Kent at the World Juniors, too stressed out about winning for Canada to even consider talking to someone who wouldn’t directly help his chances at gold, let alone someone on the other team.)

Jack spent so long trying to decide what to do, that the puck dropped without him pressing send on any of the variations of _good luck_ he’d typed out.

After the Americans lost to Slovena, he couldn’t think of anything that wasn’t meaningless platitudes to send to Bitty. Part of him felt guilty for even wanting to send them in the first place, like Don Cherry was going to jump out of nowhere and yell at him for even thinking about the American team winning a game before the Canadians got a chance to play. He didn’t send anything about hockey and neither did Bitty.

Now, Jack looks over his shoulder, hoping his face isn’t as red as it feels. M.C. is the nearest teammate, a couple rows back and with his eyes closed and an ice pack strapped to his shoulder.

“Your ice is leaking,” Jack says. M.C. grunts and doesn’t open his eyes, waving his good arm in a way that tells Jack he doesn’t care about the water spreading down his sweatshirt.

Jack slides over, tucking himself into the window seat as the bus dips with the rest of the team getting on. He turns down the brightness on his phone while he stares at the empty message box, a lingering taste of guilt in his mouth that Bitty was the one to break the hockey stalemate until Ransom sits besides him and starts bouncing his knee. Jack puts his phone away instead of typing anything, and joins in on the slow clap that starts when Cale gets on.

 

**February 16, 2018**

_Bogwang Pheonix Park, PyeongChang Mountain Cluster, South Korea_

_Day 8_

_/\\_ _/\\_ _/\\_

[Image of Jack Zimmermann smiling in the middle of three Canadian snowboarders, all shirtless. Zimmermann has CA written across his chest and stomach; Stephen Tremblay has NA; Mark Ellis has DA; Jesse Nugent has a maple leaf. B. Shitty Knight is beside Zimmermann, shirt and jacket open to show off a bare chest with no writing.]

_Liked by cale-chipsRgood, therealkvp, omgcheckplease and 104 others_

**jzimmermann**  cheering on Canada!

 

Somewhere on the highway between PyongChang and Gangnueng, Jack gets his hand in his frozen jeans and pulls out his phone. He has to scroll a little bit to find the message thread he wants. He types something, holds down the backspace and then retypes everything before just pressing send. His phone buzzes before he gets it back in his pocket.

 **< <** _Good luck on your game tomorrow!_

 **> >Bitty:** _Thanks! You too! :)_

 **< <** _:)_

 **> >Bitty:** _:D_

 

**February 17, 2018**

_Gangneung, South Korea_

_Day 9_

_/\\_ _/\\_ _/\\_

The second game goes to a shootout.

It’s a shitty fucking way to decide a game.

They didn’t lose technically, but they didn’t win either, walking away with one point to the Czech Republic’s two, despite the fact that they played better in regulation. Ellis is the epicentre of the frustration that’s almost tangible in the locker room, though everyone else adds to it as the media comes in and the same questions are answered over and over again, looking for someone to blame.

Canada is supposed to be the best after all; it’s hard not to panic when they’re not.

It was a late game, starting after nine and going to seven shooters, but Jack can’t seem to settle down once he’s showered and back in his room. Jack shut his phone in the bedside table, knowing he’d be tempted to read the articles analysing the team’s play, what they could’ve done better according to people who weren’t on the ice tonight.

Intellectually, Jack knows that shitty games happen. He’s played in games where the bounces went his way and his skates flew over the snow kicked up, and he’s played in games where he couldn’t catch a break no matter how he moved his feet. Jack knows. He just can’t stop thinking about the sound the puck makes on a cross bar, the ping and the disappointed sigh from the crowd that follows as you skate back to the bench to watch the next shooter take your place and score in the opposite direction.

Jack takes a deep breath, holds it as long as he can before blowing it out slowly. That doesn’t do anything and he briefly considers taking his phone out of the drawer to look for more breathing exercises that his therapist recommended he try. There’s an itch under his skin that he can’t quite reach, a buzzing that has him more wired than he should be after playing 25 minutes. He wishes Shitty had been more adamant on post game cuddles, but that’s Jack’s fault for insisting he’d be fine after a good night's sleep. He will be is the thing, he just needs to get to sleep first.

He twists on to his side, and kicks at the blanket when it gets tangled around his legs.

“Dude,” Ransom says.

“Sorry,” Jack mumbles.

The room goes darker when the timer on the TV goes off. Jack wiggles into a more comfortable position and closes his eyes, willing himself to sleep. He hears Ransom put his phone down and the covers moving. Jack’s whole body tenses when Ransom crawls into bed with him, throwing an arm and a leg over him to be the big spoon.

“Sorry, are we not there yet?” Ransom says into Jack’s hair. “Shitty told me you liked post-game cuddles.”

Jack’s body relaxes into the cuddle, remembering the stand-off between Ransom and Shitty when they first met before they realised they both hated the Habs.

“S’fine,” Jack says.

“Kay,” Ransom mumbles, pulling Jack closer to his chest. “Game was shitty.”

“Yeah.”

“Shootouts are fucking awful.”

“At least you made yours.”

Ransom pinches Jack. “Don’t pull that shit. Your goal is what got us to OT.”

“Yeah.”

They breathe together.

“Holtzy says he wants to meet you face to face when we’re back. He thinks your insta interviews are the best.”

“Huh.” It’s a reminder that life’s still going to go on after the tournament, that life is going on during the tournament, when all Jack has been living and breathing is the Olympics and Canada. He cracks his toes. “Are they going to take the scratches?” he asks. There are pictures in the group chat of Holster’s twitter where he’s posted links to flights from Seattle (to L.A.) to Seoul before someone from the Schooners’ PR made him take it down.

Ransom’s arms tighten. “No.” He pauses. “Bettmann has made it very clear what the consequences of a player coming to Seoul might be.”

“Sucks.”

“Yeah.”

Jack tries to relax, tries to match his breathing with the in and out of Ransom’s chest pressed against his back, but he can’t find the right rhythm. He’s still buzzing, still thinking about what he should’ve done to beat the Czech goalie. Jack was the fifth shooter and no one before him had beat the goalie on his glove side, he should’ve tried harder to make the goalie open his legs for the five-hole shot, should’ve done more to get a shot off in the last two minutes of regulation, should’ve pushed harder in OT, should’ve, should’ve, should’ve—

Ransom sighs loudly in Jack’s ear.

“Sorry,” Jack repeats. “I’m trying.”

“I know you are is the sad thing.”

Jack throws his elbows back, hears an “ooof,” that means he connected with Ransom’s chest.

“I’m going to go for a walk,” Jack says, sitting up now that Ransom’s rolled onto his back and Jack doesn’t have an arm across his chest.

“Was it the lack of moustache? I can grow one, just wait till the end of the tournament.”

Jack huffs a laugh out of his nose as he scoots to the edge of the bed. The room is still dark but it’s easy to find his McGill sweatshirt, worn soft from years of wearing and washing in a way his team Canada gear hasn’t had a chance to get yet.

“You want me to come with?” Ransom moves back to his own bed, flicking the bedside light on. The shadows make his frown much more severe than it probably is.

“No, that’s okay.” Jack shakes his head and does a little jump to pull his sweats over his ass. They pool a little at the bottom.

“I don’t mind.”

Jack shrugs; he already feels anxious and guilty that he’s kept Ransom up past the time they both should be sleeping. “I’ll be quiet when I get back.”

“S’no—” Ransom covers a yawn with the back of his hand “—worry.” He reaches for his phone and notices Jack still watching him. “Honest, you won’t bother me, Jack. Do what you need.”

Jack nods and steps out into the hallway, squinting against the bright artificial light. He goes left towards the elevators and doesn’t have to wait long for the door to open. The robot Korean voice that announces the floor is loud, ringing through the quiet of the hallway even when Jack steps into the elevator and lets the doors close.

He pushes the button for the bottom floor, hoping that maybe some fresh air will help whatever is going on in his head, but he doesn’t even make it two steps past the automatic doors before he turns around and goes right back inside. His hoodie and sweats do absolutely nothing against the cold wind that’s kicked up since the team got back from the game, and Jack shivers violently as he waits for the elevator doors to open again. He looks at the floor buttons once he’s in and the doors are closed, considering what to do. Going back to his room to get a jacket seems like too much effort now, but he’s even less likely to fall asleep now after that blast of fresh air.

Jack is running the tip of his finger around the edge of the basement level button, debating if he can get away with riding the exercise bike in the gym to take some of the edge off and still be able to skate well tomorrow, when the elevator starts moving on its own. He watches the floor numbers go up, still touching the button. The doors open on Bitty dressed in an oversized Samwell hoodie that’s long enough to cover whatever bottoms he’s wearing, if he’s wearing any. He blinks at Jack.

“Oh um, hi Jack,” Bitty says, carefully stepping in. His hair is wild, like hands have been running through it all night. He offers Jack a small smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Hey,” Jack says, clearing his throat and stuffing his hands in pockets. He can’t stop looking at the little blond hairs that cover Bitty’s legs.

“’Scuse me,” Bitty says quietly, stepping into Jack’s space. He smells like locker room soap and a spicy deodorant. Jack flushes and steps back, realising only after he’s considered leaning in and kissing Bitty again to break the stalemate of wherever-the-fuck-they-stand that Bitty’s just trying to get to the floor buttons.

Bitty presses 23. “Which floor?” he asks.

Jack shrugs.

Bitty gives him a look, but doesn’t comment on the weirdness of Jack just hanging out in the elevators, just presses the close door button. He plays with the hem of his hoodie and Jack tries his best not to stare. The robot voice announces the floor and Bitty starts down the hallway.

Jack follows slowly behind him, caught staring at the bruises on the backs of Bitty’s legs for so long that the doors almost close on him. He forgot that the Americans played tonight as well. Jack can’t remember who and has no idea what the score was, though he can hazard a guess as to what the result was based on Bitty’s mood. Jack’s pretty sure his good luck message to Bitty went unanswered, but there were messages from Mitchy and surprisingly, Davidson that he answered after Canada’s game instead.

Jack hurries and catches up to Bitty just as he turns into one of the communal kitchens in the building. Bitty fiddles with the heating system, pressing and holding the up arrow until the display reads 30C. Jack closes the door behind him, partly to keep the heat in and partly because Bitty has started going through the cupboards and isn’t being quiet about it. Jack’s not sure if there’s people asleep in the rooms on this floor, but he sure as hell doesn’t want to meet them this way. Olympic friendliness only goes so far at one in the morning.

“What’re you doing?” Jack asks. He hovers next to the counter, unsure about his welcome, or even where to go with the way Bitty is moving around the kitchen.

“Hmm?” Bitty straightens from looking in a bottom cupboard. “Looking for a pie tin. What’s in there?” He points to drawer next to Jack’s hip. Jack opens it and is unsurprised by the shape to find cutlery. There’s a pie server among the chopsticks, spoons, and what has to be at least five pairs of metal tongs. He holds up the pie server. Bitty tuts, but grabs it and sets it next to the bowls he’s laid out on the table in the centre of the room. There’s butter and salt already out.

“Er, how was your game?” Jack winces as soon as the question leaves his mouth, but the whirl of the small convection oven that Bitty turned on can only cover up so much of the awkward silence.

“Fucking terrible,” Bitty says, slamming a bag of flour on the table. He blows through the powder that puffs into the air. “Shut out against Russia—sorry, the Olympic Athletes from Russia. And, because there wasn’t enough shit on the ice, the kind people at NBC wrote all sorts of nice things about why we lost. Why I wasn’t good enough to score.” He gives Jack a smile that’s more mean than anything, and goes back to measuring out ingredients. Or at least that’s what Jack thinks he’s doing. He’s mostly just dumping flour into a bowl.

“You shouldn’t read your press,” Jack says.

“I _know_ ,” Bitty says sharply. He takes a breath. “I know.” He looks down at the mix of whatever is in the bowl, fingers flexing around the edge of it. “It’s hard not to.”

“Half the time, they don’t know what they’re talking about.”

“And the other half?” Bitty looks up, a bitter smile on his lips.

Jack shrugs, overwhelmed. He’d be a hypocrite if he said he didn’t think the press were sometimes right, much as he knows how much they’re wrong.

Bitty puts the spoon he was using down and digs in his pocket for his phone. He taps at the screen once before handing it over to Jack. Jack takes it, not entirely sure what Bitty wants him to do with it.

“Read it,” Bitty says. Jack looks down. The phone is open to an NBC Sports article, probably the last one Bitty was reading if it was so easy for him to find. Jack shakes his head and puts the phone back on the table, screen down. Bitty makes a noise in the back of his throat and grabs it.

“ _Eric Bittle was a surprising addition to the Men’s roster_ ,” he reads off the screen in a mocking voice. Jack doesn’t know who he’s mocking. “ _At 5’5”_ —five-five and half, thank you very much— _he might be one of the smallest players in the tournament, and it was certainly evident in today’s 4-0 loss against the Olympic Athletes from Russia. Bittle was constantly pushed off the puck by the bigger players and though his speed was a deciding factor in him making the team, he wasn’t exactly skating his best tonight, the OAR defence shutting him down at every opportunity_ —”

“Stop,” Jack says. Bitty’s voice cracked on the last word.

Bitty ignores him and continues, “ _Last year, Bittle captioned Samwell University to their first Frozen Four Victory in a decade, becoming the first openly gay captain in the NCAA, and now one of only a few American LGBT Athletes. His presence on Team USA has been heavily documented by social media and that begs the question of if he was a distraction on the ice tonight where he wasn’t doing much offensively. Derek Nurse—also a Samwell alum— exchanged words with OAR blue liner Vasily Nesterov early in the third that left the Americans shorted handed for the third goal. Nurse was also in the box for an interference call on the fourth goal_.”

“Bitty, stop.” Jack grabs Bitty’s wrist and takes his phone, locking the screen and putting it down on the table. “Don’t. It’s not worth it.”

Bitty closes his eyes tight. “When will it be?”

Jack doesn’t have an answer to that. He steps in and wraps his arms around Bitty instead. He doesn’t hug him as tight as he feels the occasion calls for, mindful of the bruises that are probably under Bitty’s hoodie. Bitty’s breath is moist against Jack’s collarbone as he lets himself be hugged, gripping tightly onto the back of Jack’s shirt.

Jack doesn’t know how long they stand like that. The butter that Bitty had thrown on the counter looks softer though when Bitty moves, stepping back from Jack’s chest. Jack frowns a little, chilly despite the high heat in the kitchen.

“God, I’m sorry.” Bitty sniffs a little, wiping his face on his shoulder. “This is embarrassing. I’m not normally such a mess.”

“You’re fine,” Jack says. Bitty shrugs, and chuckles a little. It sounds hollow. Jack bites his lip, hesitating on what he wants to say next. It’s a little embarrassing, but Bitty’s staring at the stick of butter, frowning like it’s personally wronged him. “I uh, looked up your games. You’re really good. Fuck what the talking heads have to say.”

Bitty looks up, mouth open slightly. He shouldn’t be that attractive, his hair is still a mess, and there’s the lightest crease on his face from Jack’s shirt. Jack can’t stop staring.

“You looked me up?” he asks.

Jack nods. “Yeah. Uh, after, after I watched your practice. It’s—Bitty, you’re so fast. And you move the puck like no one I’ve ever seen before, it’s incredible!”

Bitty smiles shyly, and it might be the first genuine expression Jack’s seen from him all night.

“You’re not so bad yourself, Jack.”

“Did you look me up?”

Bitty’s laugh surprises both of them. “I didn’t have to,” he says, shoving a little at Jack’s shoulder. Jack lets the movement push him back a little, but he rocks back, ending up much closer to Bitty than he was before. He doesn’t know which of them move first, but between one breath and the next, they’re kissing.

It feels— wow.

It feels like first breath you take when the temperature has dropped down to minus 30 and the crisp air takes a minute to settle into your lungs, but it still settles. It feels like being pressed back in your seat as your speed down two lane highway to pass a semi, too fast and too slow all at once. It feels like more than Jack is ready for, but also not enough for what Jack wants.

There’s tongue and there’s teeth and at one point Jack drops his left hand to the hem of Bitty’s hoody, discovering that he is wearing a pair of red shorts, stretched obscenely over thick thighs covered by dark blond hairs that are as soft as they look. Bitty’s thumbs dig into Jack’s hips and Jack shifts into it so Bitty touches bare skin, rubbing idly. Jack’s breath catches when they find the sweet spot of Jack’s legs slotting in between Bitty’s while Bitty makes a noise that Jack hopes he’ll never forget. Jack can’t figure out what to do with his right hand so it stays in the air between them until Bitty grabs it and somehow laces their fingers together. Jack’s toes curl in his slippers.

They kiss and and they kiss it feels like stretching out your muscles after a good, satisfying workout. **No** , it’s better.

“Jack,” Bitty says, pulling back slightly. Jack ducks down to chase his mouth instead of answering. He misses and ends up mouthing at the hinge of Bitty’s jaw. Bitty’s groan goes right to Jack’s centre.

“Jack.” Bitty tries again.

“Hmm?” Jack says into Bitty’s throat. He feels Bitty’s gasp in his lips.

“Jack, we can’t—stop.”

Jack jerks back from Bitty. He drops his hand from Bitty’s waist, but Bitty won’t let him take back the hand he’s holding.

“I—sorry,” Jack says. He tugs again; Bitty holds on tight.

“No, Jack it’s not—I wanted to. Just, we’re—look where we are.”

Jack looks around, pulling at where his shirt sticks to his stomach, a little bit sweaty where Bitty’s hand was.

There’s still flour and sugar on the table— the butter looks like it’s gone even softer— and there’s also a cloth with the Olympic rings hanging on the handle of the oven that Jack hadn’t noticed before. He immediately is reminded that they’re in a communal kitchen, and anyone could have walked in at anytime to see Bitty’s hand up his shirt and his halfway down Bitty’s pants.

He flushes and Bitty grins back. Jack deserves some kind of prize for not stepping in for another kiss, with the way Bitty looks, lips red and bitten. Jack thinks about it though but Bitty must read his mind; stepping back so their joined hands are suspended in the air.

“Jack,” he says, voice soft and accent sweet. Jack’s stomach sinks slowly.

“Not right now,” he says.

Bitty shakes his head. “I want to…”

The unspoken ‘but’ hangs between them, somewhere above where their hands are still clasped together.

But they’re in the middle of an emotionally and physically demanding tournament. But they’re on opposite teams, from different countries. But neither of them are willing to be distracted because at the end of the day, they both want to win and Jack’s never had a friend on another team, let alone whatever he and Bitty are.

Jack wants something that he’s not sure is fair to expect Bitty to give in the middle of the Olympics. Athletes have sex and hook up with other athletes at the Olympics all the time, the long strip of Olympic brand condoms that Shitty has taken half of is proof of that, as is the satisfied look on many athletes’ faces on mornings after they didn’t compete. Jack doesn’t want to do that.

He wants to be able to tell Bitty his day, about his research, and listen to Bitty’s day, and he wants to taste Bitty’s pies. He wants to be in the kitchen when Bitty is making things. He wants more than something quick between games and practices. He wants a relationship, and neither of them have much time to figure one out right now.  

“Not right now,” Bitty says eventually. He’s biting his lips. Jack leans in and kisses them.

“Sorry,” Jack says softly, not really meaning it. “Starting—” He presses another soft kiss to Bitty’s lip. And then another when he hears Bitty suck in a breath. “Starting now.” One more kiss. “Okay, now. I promise.”

Bitty’s slow to open his eyes when Jack pulls back completely. He squints at Jack when he does though. “After though?”

The question doesn’t really really make a lot of sense but Jack thinks he knows what Bitty is asking. He nods.

“After,” he agrees, without really knowing what _after_ is, what it means but excited all the same.

 

**February 18, 2018**

_Gangneung, South Korea_

_Day 10_

_/\\_ _/\\_ _/\\_

[Image of the crowd heading into a lit Gangneung Hockey Centre. Many groups of people are dressed in red and white and various Team Canada gear with Canadian flags, but at least a third of the people are waving South Korean flags too.]

_Liked by justincoco, jlzimmermann, reign-it-in and 13,391 others_

**hockeycanada**  The boys are taking on our gracious hosts tonight! Puck drops in 20 minutes at 9:10pm local time, 8:10am EST

 

Canada remembers how to win.

Bitty’s not in the kitchen when Jack goes looking after the game, and he thinks about texting him to find out his room number, but then it’s not _after_ , and Bitty’s probably somewhere with his team getting ready for their game tomorrow.

On the table, there’s a plate of with only a few brownies left, a piece of paper folded in half propped up next to it, _help yourself :)_ scrawled in black marker. The smile is a little lopsided, almost a frown, from where Jack hip checked Bitty while he was writing the note after Bitty chirped Jack something that had him giggling through the words.

Jack takes the last corner piece still on the plate and savours the bite.

 

**February 20, 2018**

_Gangneung, South Korea_

_Day 12_

_/\\_ _/\\_ _/\\_

With the win against the Koreans, Canada gets a bye into the quarter finals and the Americans also make it past Slovakia in the playoffs to play the Czech Republic. Which Jack doesn’t know from obsessively checking the box score on the CBC app while the teams has lunch together.

(He felt Ransom’s eyes on him each time he tapped on his phone screen, but Ransom was just a relieved as he was when Jack told him Nursey scores.)

The team has a late afternoon skate— nothing too strenuous but a chance to try out some new line combinations— and then a video session, but after that, they’re free to do what they want. Shitty’s in the hall with Jack’s parents when Jack comes out, blinking hard at the sudden change of brightness after being in the darkened video room.

“Jack!” Shitty shouts and waves, like Jack could ever miss him. He’s got a black and red plaid on that Jack’s pretty sure is his, and seems to have taken a page out of the Norwegian curlers’ book with the pants he’s wearing.

“Did you rob a curler?” Jack asks. Shitty waves a hand like it doesn’t matter. Jack looks at Mama and Papa, who both shrug.

“Yo, dude, those pants are wicked!” Chip comes out behind Jack and is holding out a hand for Shitty to bump.

“Thank you.” Shitty touches his knuckles to Chip’s, keeping eye contact with Jack. “A proper reaction, my good sir.”

Jack rolls his eyes.

“We tried to stop him,” Papa says.

“No, you didn’t,” Jack replies. Papa always asks for any new Shitty stories when Jack calls home.

It’s then that Chip seems to notice Papa if the high-pitched noise he makes is any indication.

“Mr. Bad Zimmermann, hi,” Cale says. His voice goes even higher when he sees Mama. “Oh, Mrs. Bad Zimmermann, hello.”

“Just Alicia is fine,” Mama says, sharing a look with Jack. “Mrs. Bad Zimmermann makes me feel old.”

Chip nods seriously, then brows furrowed, realises Mama isn’t being serious. Jack’s never seen him look so flustered. “Uh—”

“Mama, you’re as bad as Papa.” Jack puts Chip out of his misery. “Chip, these are my parents, and they’re not funny.”

“They’re a little funny,” Shitty says.

“Thank you, favourite son,” Mama says.

Jack rolls his eyes again.

“It’s very nice to meet you Chip,” Mama says. “It’s been great watching you play.”

“It’s been fun playing,” Chip says, looking like he’s relaxing a little bit. He doesn’t look as wide eyed as Papa starts asking him about his backhand, and the “nifty move” he pulled on the shootout, biting his tongue like he wants to say something about Papa using “nifty” as a compliment. Shitty wraps his arm around Jack.

“Jack, did you know they have places here called ‘singing rooms’?” he says.

“No?”

“Singing rooms. Rooms where you sing.”

“Oh man, are you talking about noraebong?”

Jack and Shitty both turn at Parker’s voice, who’s just made it out of the video room. Reigner and Suttsey are beside him looking interested.

“Maybe?” Shitty says.

“Rooms where you sing, it’s called noraebong. Zimmy, are you gonna go singing?” Parker asks, a big grin spreading across his face. He elbows Suttsey, who pulls out his phone.

Jack doesn’t trust the look on Suttsey’s face. “What?”

“Yes,” Shitty says.

“No,” Jack says.

His phone buzzes and he pulls it out to see a new message from Suttsey in the team group message.

 **> >Suttsey: **team noraebong (singing) b there or b square

Suttsey has taken his A very seriously, intent on making the most out of the amount of time they have together as a team, and it’s been fun. Jack really doesn’t want to do karaoke though.

“Coach, tell them we shouldn’t.” Jack catches Coach Ito coming out of the video room.

“Locker room’s already a damn singing room, I don’t care what you do,” Coach says. He claps Papa on the shoulder and does a complicated handshake with Mama. “You gonna join them Bobby?”

Papa laughs. “Oh, I don’t know Shaun.”

“You were never booed in our locker room.”

Mama covers her laugh with a snort when Coach looks at Chip, eyebrows raised.

“Rude Coach,” Chip says.

Papa gets a considering look on his face. Shitty whoops and grabs Jack’s shoulders to shake him back and forth. Jack sighs. He hopes he gets to pick at least one song.

 

[Image of Jack Zimmermann squished between Cale Lim and Bob Zimmermann. Jack Zimmermann is looking straight at the camera while Lim and Bob Zimmermann are looking at a giant television screen where there are lyrics to _My Heart Will Go On_ scrolling overtop a dramatic K-drama scene. Other members of Team Canada’s Men’s Hockey Team are in the background looking on.]

_Liked by therealkvp, omgcheckplease, birkholtz04, and 7,439 others_

**justincoco**  multi-talented dudes

 

**February 21, 2018**

_Gangneung, South Korea_

_Day 13_

_/\\_ _/\\_ _/\\_  

_“Looks like we’ve got a good game shaping up here, Jim.”_

_“Yeah, that’s right Alex, Finland versus Canada, here in the Gangneung Hockey Center.”_

_“Canada is coming off a rest day after they just slipped into the top four following a decent a showing in the preliminary round.”_

_“That loss to the Czech Republic really shook them up.”_

_“Unexpected to say the least.”_

_“Puck drops and Zimmermann wins the draw, sending it back to Khaira. Khaira has room, crosses it over to Oluransi who sees Díaz up the boards. One timer and Díaz gets the first shot of the game. Metsola redirects with his blocker; Lim goes in for the rebound but Ohtamaa sweeps it up and sends it down the ice. Ellie comes out of his net and holds the puck while Canada makes a change. There’s pressure there, and he passes it to Palmer. Palmer to Bourque. Bourque to the middle; Reign comes in from the left and shoots—redirection off the defense in front but Metsola swallows it up, no rebound. He holds on for a whistle. The face-off will be to his left.”_

_“Hell of a start to the game for Canada. They came out strong.”_

_“Captain Patrick Tourex’s line is out now.”_

_“Now, he’s looked good.”_

_“He really has. So many thought Coach Ito just brought Tourex in for leadership in the locker room, but he’s been really holding his own too. Currently leading the tournament in hits as a forward. He’s an absolute wagon.”_

_“Tourex loses the face-off. Tolvanen sends the puck up the ice and it’s a foot race between Koskiranta and Tryniski. Koskiranta wins it but Tryniski hits him hard into the boards. The puck squirts out but Park is in the right place to block the shot Kukkonen tries to get off. Ouch, right in the calf._

_“There’s a scramble. Bartiboque somehow comes out with the puck. Oops, loses at the blue line to Lehtonen who tries to sends it back to Kukkonen, but Bartiboque gets his stick out to pick it off. He’s get it under control and he’s dumps the puck behind the Finnish defenders. Sorella beats Kukkonen to the puck and it’s a one on one, no, two on one. Sorella passes to Bartiboque, back to Sorella. Shot—SCORE!!!!”_

_“3 minutes into the first, Giovanni Sorella opens the scoring here, putting Canada in the lead against Finland.”_

 

Canada keeps their lead through sixty minutes of play.

Jack isn’t sure who’s smiling wider at the end of the game: Ellie with the shut out or Gio with the only goal. It takes a minute, but Jack realises it doesn’t matter; they’re going to semis.

 

**February 23, 2018**

_Gangneung, South Korea_

_Day 15_

_/\\_ _/\\_ _/\\_

 **< <: ** _Good luck_

Jack’s message is sent at 3pm, about an hour before the puck is supposed to drop on the semi-final rematch between America and the Olympic Athletes from Russia. Jack’s pregame ritual involves not looking at his phone, so he almost drops it when Bitty responds right away.

 **> >Bitty: ** _you too <3 _

“Do we have to make a no sexting at the table rule too?”

Jack kicks at Reigner, but realises he’s been staring at the heart at the end of Bitty’s text, wondering if it’s wrong that he wishes _after_ would hurry the fuck up, while simultaneously hoping that _after_ doesn’t come too soon so Canada goes as far as possible in the tournament.

“Shut up,” Jack says, locking his phone.

Tourex is grinning at him too, across the table and with salad dressing in his beard.

“I’m just saying, you’ve got a perfectly good room to sext in. Locking doors and everything.”

“Excuse you, who says he doesn’t sext in the room?” Ransom butts in, speaking around a mouthful of rice and veggies.

Jack turns slightly so he’s more hunched over his plate and doesn’t have to see how well Ransom wears smugness because maybe Jack has been on his phone a lot between pregame naps. It’s just easier to text Bitty with the way their schedules seem to work against each other.

“You’re on your phone a lot is all I’m saying,” Ransom says. Jack snorts and inhales a little bit of rice as he does. Reigner thumps him on the back.

“I can’t believe you’re chirping Zimmy about his phone usage, Rans,” Tourex says. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you without yours.”

“Sorry, we’re not talking comments from the peanut gallery anymore. Especially when—” Ransom gestures at his face.

Tourex takes the napkin Jack offers and after throwing it at Ransom, starts talking about Germany’s defence and what holes he remembers from the pre-tournament exhibition game, and what he knows from playing with a bunch of the guys on the team in the Swiss league. On Tourex’s other side, Ellis chimes in with an opinion about the German goalie’s butterfly style of play, and most of the forwards lean in close to hear him over the din of the dining hall.

Jack puts his phone screen down on the table and listens intently.

The semi-final against Germany is another late game. Jack’s more than used to it though, has his late-game routine down to a science now: skate with the team, protein heavy lunch, nap, team dinner with the team, then a shower to let Ransom have a little bit of privacy to talk to Holster, read through the group chats he missed while Ransom gets ready, and then they’re on the bus to the arena, phone off.

When Jack was told the team was expected to wear matching ties on games days, he’d been pretty indifferent to the idea. It saved him the hassle of picking out his own tie, but secretly he thought it was kind of dumb to have a uniform. They were already wearing jerseys that matched on ice, and all the Canadian athletes had more red and black plaid gear than they knew what to do with so they’re always Team Canada.

He stopped questioning the matching ties though the first time he got on the bus and saw the rest of the team, dressed in their game day suits, and wearing the exact same red tie he had around his neck. The ties intensified that feeling of _team_. They’re something extra, something that makes a good shiver travel down Jack’s spin now every time he sees 23 other red ties. It’s a reminder that they’re there together, that they’ve fought together, and that they’ll keep fighting together as one.

Jack knows what it’s like to play on team. He knows how to be part of a team. He never expected to be part of a team this huge though. Team Canada goes beyond the guys on the hockey team Jack’s learned throughout the tournament. It goes beyond the other athletes are here to compete on the highest stage of their sports, and it stretches to the Canadians who travelled halfway across the world to watch them and make a little community for the weeks of Olympic competition as well as the Canadians who wake up at absurd hours to watch the athletes, who comment and like and send messages of support to the athletes, no matter the final standings.

It’s an entire country proud of each other.

“Looking good tonight boys,” Tourex says in the silence that follows him onto the bus after the game.

Any chirping about being the last one on the bus is lost in the _whoops_ and “hell fucking yeah”’s that follow.

They’re a team that’s going to the finals.

 

**February 25, 2018**

_Gangneung, South Korea_

_Day 17_

_/\\_ _/\\_ _/\\_

Jack doesn’t send anything to Bitty before the gold medal game. It’s okay; Bitty doesn’t send anything to Jack either. They’re so close to _after_ that it makes Jack’s teeth hurt thinking about it. He shoves every thought that doesn’t have to do with hockey or the American defence out of his and focuses on the last game that’s between him and Bitty and the potential of _after._

They have five minutes back in the locker room between warm ups and puck drop and Jack’s on his knees in front of the toilet, riding out the wave of nausea that hit him hard when he pulled on the red jersey and the maple leaf settled on his chest, and intensified when he saw the stars and stripes across the ice during warm up.

“Zimmy, you good?” Without his helmet on, Ellie’s head is tiny compared to the rest of his body with all his goalie pads on, but he’s managed to wedge his shoulders through the doorway to look at Jack. Jack hears the rest of team shouting to pump each other up behind him.

Jack flushes and stands up, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. It comes away a little tacky. “Yeah.”

Ellie squints at him and waits while Jack rinses out his mouth with the mouthwash next to the sink. Jack would rather a toothbrush, but he takes a swig, grimacing at the burn, and spits it out.

“Fuck,” Jack says.

“Yep,” Ellie agrees. He claps Jack on the shoulder. “Canada and the gold medal game, who would’ve thought?” He’s a little bit sarcastic as he says it, but Jack’s come to know that as his default tone. “Let’s go bud, show them they were wrong for wanting the NHL players.”

Jack takes a breath, and it’s a little more shaky than he’d like, but he follows Ellie back out into the locker room, accepting all the ass taps his teammates offer as he makes his way to his stall beside Ransom. Even through his pads, the touches are grounding.

There’s an air of nervousness that blends together with the loud shouts that bleed into the locker room from the arena. A muffled voice announces the Americans as the home team and the cheers get even louder. Chip looks vaguely nauseous, teeth clamped so tightly together that it almost looks painful. Ransom’s knee bouncing is moving the entire bench. No one says anything though, looking at Coach who wore a red tie for the game.

“We’re here boys, and that’s because you played your absolute hearts out to get here. Let’s leave everything on the ice. We can do it,” he says. “There’s an entire country watching that knows you can. Let’s show them.”

Someone starts tapping the butt of their stick on the ground and everyone joins in until the locker room is a cacophony of noise, drowning out any sound from outside the locker room until the only thing they can hear is each other. Jack swallows the last of the butterflies, the nerves going as quickly as they came. He knows hockey. He knows how to play. He takes his spot in the line up behind Danny as they walk down the tunnel.

Team Canada is announced for the last time in the tournament, and they take the ice to do their last half lap as a team before the starting line up takes their spots. Ellie gets helmet taps from everyone and goes off to his net. Jack goes to centre ice and doesn’t recognize the American centre across from him. Bitty’s opposite Chip and maybe after the tournament Jack would like to see which of them is faster but right now, he’s got to believe it’s Chip so he focuses on the ref coming up with the puck.

“Let’s have a good game, boys, alright?” he says. Jack and the American both nod.

A whistle blows and the puck drops.

The gold medal game starts.

Jack’s world narrows down to the ice under his skates and the shouts of his teammates; nothing else matters for the next sixty minutes.

He skates harder than he ever has before, up and down the ice, spending more time that he’d like in his own zone to compensate for the fastness of the American’s first line. The defence is tight though and the Canadian defense limits the shooting chances as much as possible. Anything they miss though, Ellie is on, reflexes fast as he gloves or knocks away the shots.

“Zimmermann, go.” Coach doesn’t even need to tap Jack’s back before he’s jumping over the boards and onto the ice. The seconds before he’s back on the ice are long, and he has to take gulps of air before he can reach for a water bottle.

“Speedy fuckers,” Chip says, wiping down his visor with a towel.

“Is this how you old guys feel when you play against me?” Chip asks. Jack snorts at the genuine bewilderment in Chip’s voice, knowing that Danny is arching a pointed eyebrow, also seeing the irony in Chip calling someone else a speedy fucker.

“You’re keeping up fine,” Jack says.

“I can do better than keep up.”

“Then let’s see it.”

Danny elbows Jack this time, but his teeth are bared in a wild grin around his mouthguard the next time their line takes the ice. Chip goes right into the corner to dig out a puck that Ransom sends from behind Ellie’s net. Chip beats the American defender easy, though he has some troubles when another American comes back to help. Danny hits harder than Jack does so he gets in there, muscling the second American away.

Jack watches this from around the  blue line and right when he sees Danny get the puck on his stick, he goes towards the American net.

“Here, here, here!” he shouts, banging the blade of his stick on the ice where he wants it. Danny barely looks at him—they’ve practice this—and sends the puck over. Jack gets it and shoots, aiming for bar down. The goalie makes a glove save before covering the puck with his body. Jack goes in to poke for a rebound, but the play’s blown dead. Jack stops just at the top of the crease.

He sees CHOW stretched across the goalie’s shoulders.

“Watch your fucking snow,” a defender comes over and gets between Jack and Chowder, shoving Jack slightly. It’s Nursey, and though he’s wearing a smile, he’s not nearly as friendly looking as he was the other times Jack has seen him. Jack shrugs and backs off, circling before taking his spot for the next face-off.

It’s only seconds later, or maybe it’s been hours, when the horn to end the period blows and then Jack blinks and he’s on the bench watching the second period start.

It starts hard, both teams done feeling each other out. Checks are harder, boards shaking every time someones run into them to the delight of the crowd, who eats it up and shouts Canadian or American chants in turn. The penalty boxes get more use too, and both teams start beaking at each other.

“Go fucking brush your teeth,” Chip shouts at the d-man, who’s been riding his ass this whole shift. Chip’s most recent attempt at a goal ended with the puck getting lost in Chowder’s equipment so there’s a stoppage in play while Nursey helps Chowder try to shake it out.

“Fucking board me again, see what happens,” the d-man shouts back.

“Oh fuck off, he barely touched you, you fucking diver.” Jack grabs the back of Chip’s jersey and skates him away. Chip makes a weird sound in his throat, but lets himself be pulled to the bench.

“What the fuck is that?” Jack asks.

“I saw Giroux do it once,” Chip says. He’s still glaring across the ice at the d-man. It takes Jack a second to get what Chip is referencing.

“Are you cooing at him?”

Chip stops glaring and looks at Jack. “Is that what it’s called?”

The refs find the puck and they’re called back for the face-off. Jack wins it and gets the puck right on Danny’s tape for a one-timer. Danny’s arms are already in the air—when you know, you _know_ — when the goal horn goes off.

“That’s how we fucking doooo!!!” Chip shouts as he barrels into the liney celebration. He coos the whole time they go through the fist bump line. Jack knocks into his shoulder when they’re back on the bench. Chip barely has time to respond when the goal horn is going off again, this time for an American goal.

“Fuck,” Jack says as he looks up to catch the replay on the big screen. Number 15 is credited with the goal, a filthy redirect that Ellie had no chance on.

“It’s okay boys.” Coach’s voice comes from over Jack’s head. “Lots of time on the clock.”

They go into the third period tied at one.

Jack gets cross checked, goes down hard, and gets up pissed when there’s no call. He skates hard to try to get it back but the American’s capitalise on the five-on-three.

Goal.

The Canadians don’t answer back as quickly as the Americans did, but they do answer back is the point: Suttsey with a clapper from the blue line that goes in because Mac moves out of the screen at exactly the right time. Jack feels the roar of the crowd deep in his chest and it carries him on his next shift. Ransom sets him up for a hell of a shot, but Chowder’s quick to go down, blocking it with his pads. Danny gets the rebound, sends it cross ice to C.K. Nursey sprawls across the ice on his stomach to block his shot, taking the puck to his side. Jack chomps on his mouthguard but hurries back to the bench so fresh legs can get onto the ice.

It feels like his ass has barely touched the bench when a shrill whistle sounds. Tourex is trying to plead Oli’s case for accidental high-sticking, but there’s blood on an American jersey so Canada will spend last four minutes of the third short handed. Coach calls for a timeout and tells both PK units to get ready for quick shifts.

“We’re outplaying them,” Coach says. “Keep tight to your mark, and don’t let them dump the puck in, it’s too late in the game to be trying to win footraces, got it?” He looks around the loose circle, making eye contact with everyone. “No matter what happens, I’m proud of you guys, okay?”

“Aw Coach,” Ransom says. “You’re making us blush.”

Those who have the breath huff out a laugh; cheeks are red from the exertion of playing 56 minutes of a back and forth, 200-foot game.

The ref blows his whistle, a warning.

“Show ‘em what you can do.”

Canada wins the face-off and get the puck out of their zone but the extra American man makes it difficult to get a clean shot off. It comes back into their end, but they practiced this and a whole minute and a half goes by without either team making a shot. Jack gets a minute on the bench, keeping one eye on the play while he squirts water into his mouth. He stands when Bourque finally makes a shot, but it goes wide of the net.

Back on the ice, Jack skates the entire length of it twice, trailing Bitty who’s neat movements with the puck would be admirable in literally any other situation. Jack finally pokes the puck away from him, getting it to C.K. who sends it around the boards. Bitty’s swears under his breath and takes off down the ice again, while Jack takes off to the benches.

The second PK unit keeps tight. Jack’s jumped the boards just as Ransom gets the puck and he sees exactly where Jack is going. Jack’s legs scream at him but he beats the d-man to the puck and doesn’t have time to think, knowing the defender is right behind him. He flips the puck from his forehand to his backhand and then he sees his opening, a little bit of space left between the left pad and the post. He feels rather than hears the roar of the crowd as the goal horn goes off, and he adds to the noise, shouting happily as his teammates rush into him.

Jack’s not on the ice when the final horn sounds. There’s a rushing in his ears that’s not from the excited crowd, nor is it from Chip’s intelligible shouting right in his face. He unwraps himself from Danny’s bone crushing hug to throw his stick and his gloves onto the ice with the rest of the team’s, and as he’s swinging a leg over the boards, he catches sight of Bitty.

This is one of the happiest moments of Jack’s life and yet, his stomach sinks a little seeing how Bitty wears his broken heart openly. He’s holding his helmet listlessly in one hand and pressing the other to his eyes, head tipped back to the ceiling, looking extremely vulnerable with an exposed throat while he chews on his lip. Jack can see how heavily he’s breathing, chest moving up and down underneath the American crest. There’s a of Jack that he didn’t know he had that aches for the losing team.

Bitty drops his chin back to his chest when Jack is still sitting on the edge of the boards, probably only twenty seconds after the clock ran out. His brown eyes are big and wet, and his hair sweaty enough to stand up completely on its own. Jack falters, almost falling onto the ice. Suddenly all he can think about is that he didn’t think it through that _after_ would come after someone lost a game.

Bitty looks absolutely wrecked. He’s a better man than Jack could ever hope to be though, because the corners of his mouth twitch up into a small smile when he sees Jack looking at him.

“After,” he mouths before skating back to his net, to where the Americans have gathered around Chowder.

Jack’s heart soars.

He swings his other leg over the bench, and joins his team in their celebration of a gold medal.

Fuck, they did it. Gold.

Jack shouts in Ellie’s face, who shouts back even louder, grabbing both of Jack’s cheeks so he can pull him down for a forehead kiss.

“Zimmy you fucking beauty!”

Ransom grabs Jack next, burying his face in Jack’s neck and holding on tight. He’s shaking a little, or maybe it’s Jack who’s shaking as the rest of the team comes in and wraps them up in one of the sweatiest hugs Jack has ever been a part of.

It’s one of the best places he’s ever been.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so uhhhh,,,, that happened. actually within the next few days i'll have an epilogue up to talk about my favourite team canada players cale 'chip' lim 
> 
> don't @ me 
> 
> (jk, it'll have bitty and jack in it too) 
> 
> im on [tumblr](http://pongpalace.tumblr.com/post/) talking with the void ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ


	4. Epilogue: After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack wakes warm, even though Bitty has stolen all the blankets sometime during the night. Again. They didn’t close the curtains last night—were more than a little distracted—but once Jack blinks the sleep out of his eyes, he doesn’t actually mind the way the morning sun comes through the windows and casts what he can see of Bitty in a rosy glow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don't worry, im just as surprised as you are that i stuck to my planned schedule

**June 25, 2018**

_Boston, Massachusetts_

 

_/\\_ _/\\_ _/\\_

 

Jack wakes warm, even though Bitty has stolen all the blankets sometime during the night. Again. They didn’t close the curtains last night—were more than a little distracted—but once Jack blinks the sleep out of his eyes, he doesn’t actually mind the way the morning sun comes through the windows and casts what he can see of Bitty in a rosy glow. 

“Stop staring,” Bitty mumbles, burying deeper into the covers. 

“Stop stealing all the blankets,” Jack responds, rolling over so he can press a kiss to the little tuft of Bitty’s hair that’s sticking out. Bitty grumbles slightly but wiggles and turns so that his back is pressed to Jack’s chest. 

“Oh no, you can’t have all the blankets and be the little spoon,” Jack says, even as he wraps an arm around Bitty’s middle and pulls him closer. He gets his feet under the blankets again and digs his toes into Bitty’s calves until lifts his legs and catches Jack’s feet between them. Bitty’s breath deepens as he falls back asleep and almost without meaning to, Jack times his breathing with the rise and fall of Bitty’s chest. 

He doesn’t fall back asleep, but he doesn’t move either, enjoying that he can spend a morning in bed with Bitty. It’s been four months of _after_ , of getting to touch Bitty, to cuddle and chirp him about the wicked bedhead that he always wakes up with. Four months of a growing text thread, of emojis that Jack doesn’t quite understand but likes when Bitty uses anyways, of late night phone calls while Jack walks home from the library, and face timing while Bitty tries out a new recipe in his little kitchen. Four months of learning that they have different opinions on when to do what during their nighttime bathroom routines; four months of accidental missed calls; four months of apology texts for missing a call. 

It’s been fourth months of learning how to be in a relationship with Bitty, how to work together as a team to make the distance seem smaller.

Jack is still living in Montréal technically, finishing up a spring course at McGill, but he visits Bitty as often as possible, when he has a couple days between seminars and no immediate due dates, taking full advantage of the flexibility of his schedule. Bitty lives in Boston, in a small house that he shares with Lardo who is working on her Master’s in Art Conversation while she interns at a museum. 

During the days, Bitty works in a little café a couple bus stops from the house and doesn’t it love it necessarily, but he’s been talking to the people at You Can Play about young player’s development and what kind of steps should be made to make sure kids at all levels of play are comfortable, no matter their sexuality. He gets flustered if anyone pushes him too hard about it, since he hasn’t officially been offered a job yet, but Jack has heard from a reliable source (Papa and Kent) that it’s only a matter of time, so he’ll keep pushing Bitty to stop stress baking and consider it. 

Bitty huffs in his blanket cocoon as Jack’s phone buzzes loudly on the night stand. Jack twists to grab it, curious because he purposefully didn’t set an alarm knowing that his flight back to Montréal is a redeye and Bitty has a day off from the café. He untangles his feet from Bitty’s—earning another huff— and sits up when he sees the email notification on the lockscreen.

_Dear Mr. Zimmermann,_ it starts, before the preview cuts off. Jack swings his legs out of bed and stands up, going to the bathroom to pee and brush his teeth. He needs to be more awake for the rest of the email.

Bitty finds him at the kitchen table not five minutes later, looking more awake than Jack left him, but still with pillow creases cutting across his face. He smells like he stopped to brush his teeth too, but he hasn’t done anything about the wild blond cowlicks all over his head so Jack knows he doesn’t have any immediate plans that will take them out of the house. His hair tickles Jack’s nose when he settles himself in Jack’s lap so they’re chest to chest.

“Morning sweetheart,” Bitty says. He’s still sleep warm, despite wearing only wearing the little red shorts and one of Jack’s old Redmen t-shirts that he didn’t realise Bitty stole. “Why’d you leave?” Bitty sounds more petulant than he probably means to, but his over-exaggerated pout tells Jack that he’s not actually upset they’re out of bed. 

Jack’s hands settle on the thick muscle of Bitty’s thighs. He runs his thumbs idly over the hairs there. 

“They accepted my application,” Jack says. 

It takes a moment for Bitty to understand who ‘they’ are, but when he does, the smile the spreads across his face is brilliant.

“BU?” he asks.

“Yeah. The historiography course I’m working on now is like, a pre-rec to the courses they’re offering in September, so I’ll be able to officially start then, if I pass it.”

“You will.”

“I mean, they also want a more formal write up of my thesis proposal, and references letters, but…” Jack shrugs.

“ _Jack_!” Bitty grabs Jack’s face and pulls him in for a kiss, though he’s smiling so widely that Jack’s lips end up pressed against his teeth. “Jack, I’m so proud of you,” Bitty says between kisses. At that, their smiles are both too big for their kisses to be anything other than teeth knocking together. 

Jack closes his eyes and rests his forehead against Bitty’s, not because he doesn’t want to see Bitty, but because sometimes Bitty just shines so brightly that Jack has to take a minute bask in the warmth that is Bitty, to appreciate the little things that mean it’s okay for Jack to look.

“So, euh, are you looking for a roommate?” Jack asks, when he musters up the courage to open his eyes again. 

“Oh.” 

Jack leans back and sees the shock that’s clear on Bitty’s face. His heart stutters in his chest.

“Uhhh— I think Shitty’ll said something about the bar exam here. I can—he’s probably looking for a place. It’s too fast.” Jack makes to get up from the chair, but Bitty’s knees tighten on his sides.

“No, Jack, that wasn’t a bad ‘oh’,” Bitty says, grabbing Jack’s face again. He runs his thumbs gently over the thin skin under Jack’s eyes. “I was just surprised is all. I didn’t think—well I’d only hoped you would maybe want to move down here. Or, or something.” 

The relief that floods through Jack’s system makes him a little lightheaded. “Or something?” 

“Or something,” Bitty nods. He bites his lip and looks at Jack. “I’m maybe looking for a roommate,” he says. “Do you know anyone who thinks it’s proper to floss before you’ve brushed your teeth.” He’s shining brightly again. 

“Shitty thinks so too,” Jack says, burying his face in Bitty’s neck to hide his smile. He’s a little embarrassed at how wide it is at the thought of moving in, of living with Bitty while he gets his PhD., and of a something together after that.

“Shitty’s not the one I wanna to fall asleep next to,” Bitty says. 

“Oh thank god,” Jack mumbles, joking. He deserves the swat it earns him. He pulls back once more to look at Bitty. 

“I’m really happy,” he says.

“Me too,” Bitty replies. 

Later, Jack will have to figure out student visas or maybe a green card. He’ll have to read through all of the notes he’s taken on sports in North America, the sense of identity that comes from being a part of a team, and how that relates to a collective, national identity. He’ll have to call his parents and tell them he’s moving in with his boyfriend, and he’ll have to endure the chirping that he’s finally left the nest. He’ll have to remember to send something to Chip, who’s probably back home in B.C. now, but was just drafted to the Falconers, and Ransom and Holster will want to know too. Maybe he'll bcc them all on the email he has to send back to confirm his acceptance of a spot in the program. That could be funny.

Right now though, Jack kisses Bitty in the kitchen and knows that whatever he has to do, he's going to be on Bitty's team for as long as he can. 

Forever sounds nice. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so. i guess, uhhh, thanks for sticking around? i hope you guys enjoyed this story as much i enjoyed writing it: your comments are going into my secret folder labeled _4 when u have feelings_ because honestly, they've made me smile more than you'll ever know (they've also gotten me weird looks on trains because sometimes a bro's gotta reread what makes a bros' heart go to mush).

**Author's Note:**

> im on [tumblr](http://pongpalace.tumblr.com/post/170498705513/we-are-climbing-higher-at-130-pm-on-april-4-2017/) talking with the void ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ


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